


Maybe in Another Life

by samedifference61



Series: The Only Way Out is the Way Back in [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: AU post 4x09, Angst, Captain Long John Silver, Established Relationship, F/M, Know No Shame, M/M, Multi, Period-Typical Racism, Pirate Feels, Polyamory, Post Series, Reunions, Sparring, Suicidal Thoughts, Tattoos and Scars, VIII is mostly threesome porn, the Walrus returns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-10-20 02:38:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10653195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samedifference61/pseuds/samedifference61
Summary: At the rail of a ship James doesn’t command, they stand shoulder to shoulder.“John still thinks you’re dead,” James states, because it’s something that needs to be said aloud before they continue.With eyes unblinking toward the rolling sea, Madi says, “And he still thinks youshouldbe dead.”James’ lip curls in anger. The wounds of betrayal are too fresh for either to say anymore.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> While this is a self-contained work, in my head, this takes place after [the only way out is the way back in](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10164296) which is also Flint/Madi/Silver. Thomas does not appear here, but he is alive in this universe, and once this is finished, I have some ideas about how to incorporate him into a second part.
> 
>  ~~This is currently running at about 18,000 words and is 80% finished. ~30,000 words and I'm nearly there, just editing the last part.~~ FINISHED! Or is it... 
> 
> A big thank you goes to [barefootnightingale](http://barefootnightingale.tumblr.com/) for her beta work and general encouragement. ♥

When the main topsail of the _Walrus_ disappears below the faded horizon for the last time, burnt beyond repair, James knows the war is lost.

When Woodes Rogers puts a pistol to Madi’s temple and pulls the trigger, the sound of it echoing through John Silver’s cry of anguish, he knows in that moment John is also lost to him.

This war only meant something to John when _she_ was part of it, and Flint did everything in his power to ensure that was honored, until he failed.

The next twelve hours pass in a blur of racing heartbeats and lungs never quite filling with breath. Before this, there was never any need to plan for what came next. Flint never saw himself surviving the war, _his war_ , but now.

_Now_ , somehow his heart is still beating. After everything else, his heart is the one still beating.

James was _so sure_ it would end differently.

Once the fear of death is removed, only the anger and bone-deep betrayal remain, and nothing feels as if it will repair itself. James hardly knows how he got here, on solid ground in Nassau town again. It’s a changed place, scared and broken. The remaining people are rushing about with clear intent towards the docks, a tide he pushes against with all the strength he has left, against the pull toward the last ships leaving the harbor before the Redcoats can establish order amongst the boiling fear and chaos.

His skin feels feverish as he stands outside the governor’s mansion, hands clinched into fists. He thinks wildly of rushing the stairs and tearing Governor Rogers apart with his hands. He would never get past the guards; there are too many possibilities to control, and he is certain Rogers isn’t inside anyway, but James won’t leave this world a coward, and since John Silver has taken everything else from him, ownership of _this moment_ is what he has left.

He takes two steps toward his goal, toward an ending that might satisfy him, when a hand closes around his forearm and there’s a hissed, “Captain,” at his ear.

On instinct, he throws her to the ground, adrenaline still blazing under his skin.

He isn’t a captain any longer, but if this woman can recognize him, then surely others will also know him by face, if not by name.

She’s dressed in rags, a dirty slave’s uniform covering dark skin.

“ _James_ ,” she tries again, gentler this time, a plea for understanding.

James should have gone down with his ship a hundred different times, should have perished on Skeleton Island without rescue, but he didn’t. Instead, he is here, in Nassau town square, a block from the docks, with Madi Scott _alive_ at his feet, thrown to the ground by his rage and paranoia at the end of it all.

He stands over her, considering her watery eyes and the determined set of her jaw, and he takes an unsteady step toward her and away from the mansion.

He made a promise once, to protect her, to keep her safe despite the rage and the need to bury himself in grief. It should be something he can easily set aside now, his promise to John Silver, but when he looks at her, he— _cannot_.

Swearing under his breath, he hauls her up and keeps her close as he pulls her toward a nearby alley. She isn’t real. It’s the only explanation. He makes a fist to force himself awake, because this must be a fucking dream, a hallucination of his own making.

James pushes her to the bricks with a tight grip on her arm. He shields her beneath the shadows and barks, “ _How_?”

_How is she alive? How is she here? Rogers pulled the trigger and they watched her fall— And Silver had gone mad with his own grief, had blamed Flint for it all, for choosing this war over her life, and Israel Hands had convinced Silver to maroon Flint on that fucking island. In his grief, he sent six men after James to kill him or die without rescue, he didn’t fucking care because Madi was gone._

_“This is not what I wanted,” James had shouted on his knees, wrists bound behind him, voice broken and raw. He had shouted at Silver’s back as he retreated to Rackham and Hands, to the Victory, to a life that would take him far from this place and away from James forever._

“They wanted you to think I was dead. They wanted to rip you from him, to break the bond between you. ‘ _This is the way,’ Billy had said. ‘Make them think she is dead_. _It will break them_.’ But I am _not dead_ ,” Madi snarls back, fingernails digging into his wrist, pressing just as hard as he is into her arm.

She had never been on that ship. It was someone else they saw falling to the deck.

And it had worked. The bond was severed, definitively and absolutely, and John Silver had left Flint to _die_ , and their war along with him.

James takes a shuddered breath and the anger subsides, rolling away like the tide. She is here, he reminds himself. _She’s alive,_ and he is so fucking scared to touch her for fear she might vanish before him, a phantom of his rage and despair and exhaustion.

She touches his wrist and presses her forehead to his chest, and he can do nothing more than fold her into him and feel the weight of her against his heart.

They breathe together in those moments. He holds the lapel of his coat around her shoulders when she shivers. She crushes him to her so tightly he can almost feel his ribs crack, and he starts to believe.

While he may be ready for his own death, he _cannot_ leave her to her own.

+

They flee to the cellar of the Barlow home, surrounded by Flint’s long buried past.

There are books belonging to Thomas and dresses belonging to Miranda here. Mr. Gates’ maps and trinkets lay in a thick coat of dust, many collected from trade runs along the African coast in his younger days. When James finds Avery’s log missing, he swears and carefully burns the rest of them. He won’t be taking any of these things with him.

All of them, his closest friends, are gone now. There is nothing of John Silver in the cellar except scars left branded into James’ skin. Scars are not something he can so easily burn or discard or hide away in musty corners.

There’s a small cache of gold secured from Flint’s own prizes too, the last remnants of a man deceased, kept carefully managed by Miranda for such a day as this, he supposes. It’s enough to see that Madi is taken care of, at least.

Madi is quiet but not sleeping on a woolen blanket. She is bruised and beaten from her escape, weak from lack of food and water, but she is solid and breathing and determined to not let Silver’s actions go unaccounted for. There is blood dried along her hands and forearms, blood that is not her own, but James doesn’t ask about the cost she paid to free herself. It seems she was the only one of them able to save herself.

James decides they will secure passage to Port Royal under cover of night and false identities. They will both be killed on sight if they remain here for much longer, and there is nothing left for either of them in Nassau. He will help her find her way back to her people and Captain Long John Silver, if it’s what she desires. From there, James will— well, he doesn’t know yet. For the first time in a long time, he isn’t planning five steps ahead. After she is safe, there’s no longer any reason to fight what might come his way. The war is lost and the rest doesn’t matter anymore.

Madi closes her eyes. No tears escape, but James can see the tremor in her hands anyway.

+

In Port Royal, they learn Woodes Rogers has burned the Maroon Camp to ruins and sold the people, _Madi’s people_ , into slavery on the unforgiving sugar plantations of Spanish Hispaniola.

Madi takes the news without flinching, but James has learned to read the subtlety of shifting weight from one foot to the other, the set of her jaw, the carefully controlled pace of her breathing.

“It would have been a trap,” she reasons. “Rogers must have thought John would take chase and not allow it. But he did not go to their aide. John has given up this war and has chosen to save himself instead.”

She is angry and broken and so fucking tired of it all. James sees these emotions reflected in the curl of his own lip and the beat of his heart, and he doesn’t know what he can say.

There is nothing he can say.

He was _so sure_ all of this would turn out differently. If Silver had just _trusted_ him, returned Flint’s trust with equal intensity. There is nothing that could have broken them.

She won’t be securing passage to the Maroon Island. She won’t be returning to John Silver. It isn’t safe, she reasons aloud, but James also hears the betrayal left unsaid, too.

+

Later, after the rum is drowning him from the inside, quieting the demons that threaten to swallow him whole, James lets Madi cut the hair from his beard short with a small pair of scissors. Then she takes a blade to his chin with precise movements. He lets her because she seems to need life’s mundane tasks to numb her internal grief.

When she’s finished, he runs his hand over his smooth chin. It’s been a long time since he’s been clean shaven.

“You look younger,” Madi says, and the smallest corner of her mouth lifts in a somber grin.

“I do not feel it,” James answers on a sigh, letting his eyes fall closed.

Once the rum is finished, his need for affection outweighs the distance he’s forced between them, so he whispers, “I’m sorry,” into her neck, breathing in her comforting scent. He pulls at the fabric woven around her head until her hair is free and gently strokes the coiled strands through his fingers.

Madi curls into his touch like she’s been starved of it, too.

She gently scrapes her fingernails through the short hairs at the base of his skull and presses her cheek to his. There’s only smooth skin between them now.

“It won’t change a thing. I can’t answer for what he’s done, or what he hasn’t done, but I’m _so fucking sorry_ for it all.”

“We both carry the burden of loss,” she whispers. “Neither is greater than the other.” Finally, tears spill from her eyes in the privacy of their shared room, and James gently brushes them away with his thumbs, lets them fall against his own cheek.

“ _I_ do not blame you,” she finishes. “I knew the cost I would likely pay, and I am not sorry for trying.”

He kisses the sorrow from her damp face and knows whatever small measure of comfort he can provide will not be enough.

+

“We will need passage for _two_ to Williamsburg,” she corrects.

James means to protest, to set her on a path elsewhere rather than following him into obscurity. A man without direction shouldn’t lead others into it.

“Pardon, ma’am,” the cotton merchant says politely. He has agreed to the exchange of money for passage to the colonies, and Williamsburg seems as good a place as any. “I can assume from your dress and nature that you are a woman of some status, but— papers will be necessary to ensure your safe passage.”

“She is a freewoman,” James corrects forcefully. He has no patience for pleasantries anymore, and hopes his sneer is enough to keep this man in line. Her life is her own, and after everything else they’ve lost, James will not take something so precious as freedom from her.

“Have you proof?” the man ventures, voice quivering with fear. “Williamsburg harbor checks papers these days. A runaway ain’t something I’m prepared to—”

James wants to strangle this man. No. Of course, they do not have _fucking_ papers.

“We will procure them,” James growls.

The merchant shakes his head. “I beg pardon, sir. Papers to prove free-status are quite another matter entirely, and something you will not find easily in Port Royal.” He leans forward and takes a casual look around before whispering, “As I can see this is a delicate matter of some urgency, papers of _ownership_ are easier to— falsify.”

Madi subtly reaches under the table to cover James’ fist closed around the base of his sword with one of her own hands, soothing the building rage. Skin color binds them to separate lives beyond Nassau, and James fears this is only the first reminder.

“We will acquire the necessary documents of ownership,” Madi assures.

+

At the rail of a ship James doesn’t command, they stand shoulder to shoulder.

“John still thinks you’re dead,” James states, because it’s something that needs to be said aloud before they continue.

With eyes unblinking toward the rolling sea, she says, “And he still thinks you _should_ be dead.”

James’ lip curls in anger.

The wounds of betrayal are too fresh for either to say anymore.


	2. II

Williamsburg is busy and far too orderly for James’ taste.

It’s far from approaching the size or wealth of London, but the people here put on an air of importance all the same. Remaining anonymous will not be difficult in a place where ambition, some measure of wealth, and a learned tongue are all that is required to rise above one’s status.  

Land is inexpensive and easy to acquire, especially northwest of Williamsburg, along the York River, where the native threat only appeals to those ready to take on the risk of a life less secure.

James listens to stories of natives slitting the throats of two tobacco farmers along the Rappahannock several months ago and knows the story is exaggerated by the way it’s recounted to him, but he holds his tongue and raises his eyebrows when it’s required.

If he were a man without Nassau as part of his past, their stories might have frightened him into reconsidering.

Instead, he assures the land proprietor he’s trained with a pistol and a blade and purchases the land anyway.

+

“How long will you stay?” James asks, the words caught on his tongue like cotton, mind clouded with rum, once again. He takes another drink and fingers the drab fabric of her dress where it flairs at the hips, always finding he craves her touch when he’s taken to the drink.

She’s an anchor, he thinks. It’s the only thought he manages with some clarity. _She_ is his last tether to this world, and he chuckles to himself, because if, no, _when_ she leaves him to his misery he might finally be brave enough to remove himself from this life, a life without purpose or direction.

Yes, that is what’s left. Once he knows she is safe, he can end it.

Silent and still, Madi stands by the window of the small room they’re renting in town. She pulls the sheer curtain aside and watches the sea roll against the busy harbor. A storm is coming, darkening the horizon with low grey-black clouds, and James can feel the wind pick up and hear the thunder rumbling distantly, hungry for release.

In a remote part of his mind, he thinks about John in this storm, commanding men to chase a prize _into_ it, something only Flint would ever try, something Flint _taught_ him a long time ago. Here, in Williamsburg town, a storm such as this one only means an inconvenience, not the difference between life and death.

She doesn’t look at him but says, “I will stay as long as you need me.”

And James wonders if she’s thinking of John, too.

+

The ache in his bones after a long day of hammering nails and fixing boards together reminds him he’s still alive.

At Madi’s quiet urging, he hires a carpenter and a few laborers to help raise a small house on the purchased land.

“You need a place of your own,” she says while quietly removing the bottles of rum from their room in town.

It will be a simple place when it’s finished. A hearth room and a sitting room, a single bedroom lofted above narrow wooden stairs. It will be large enough for him, and Madi, for as long as she chooses to stay.

James isn’t a carpenter, but he learns quickly, and the work is time consuming enough that his mind is occupied with it over the darker thoughts that tend to overcome him when he’s idle.

While they work, Madi ties her hair up high with cloth and hauls water from the well. She mixes plaster to cover the iron nails and wooden walls, and later, thick tar to weather-proof the roof.

She doesn’t complain when the laborers treat her as a slave, and only admonishes James in privacy for his stubbornness on the matter. After a while, he stops trying to control their perception of her because it’s impossible to alter it without letting their story be known. She has accepted her role here.  She tells him as much, and she tells James he needs to also.

+

When the men do not need her services, Madi turns over soil with a gardening hoe, mixes it with manure, and sows seeds purchased from town.  

Sometimes she sits quietly, her back to him, and stares out toward the tree line, lost in her own thoughts. Sometimes there are tears streaking her face, sometimes not. James always wants to cradle her close when there are tears, but he understands the need for space in these moments, too. So he stays near but doesn’t touch her. He stays near, just in case.

After a month, there is a small vegetable garden where carrots and potatoes and beans are sprouting for their private use. It is clear she finds peace in it, surrounded by new growth and new beginnings.

+

“If that slave girl of yours is for sale, I’d be willing to part with a month-old calf of mine for your trouble,” the carpenter says to James when the house is nearly finished. James wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sun-reddened arm and squints down at Madi kneeling over a dozen tomato plants, pulling weeds from the soil by hand.

He’s careful not to react to this man’s poor choice of words. Madi, who fought alongside him with unyielding passion and grace. Madi, who was an heiress to an entire island, and is still standing after she’s lost everything. _Madi_ is worth more than this man’s _life_ , let alone his _fucking_ month-old calf.

“She’s not for sale,” James manages, keeping his voice level while his knuckles turn white from gripping the hammer too tightly.

“I thought as much, but she takes direction well, doesn’t say much, and is mighty kind on the eyes,” the carpenter goes on. “Those qualities can be hard to come by these days in _any_ woman around these parts, let alone a slave girl.”

“You will not speak of her again,” James warns, and hopes this man is clever enough to recognize the danger in James’ eyes and drop the conversation. James lowers himself down from the roof to the ladder, and it takes all his strength to calm himself.

It’s not the carpenter’s fault he’s ignorant of his and Madi’s circumstances.

+

At the end of the day, after the hired men have left and it’s quiet and still again, Madi strips to her underclothes and brings water in large basins to the porch behind the house. There’s no place for washing inside, so they’ve made do with the porch on warm nights. It’s secluded enough, and their land is large and wooded, providing some privacy.

She stands before James until he relents under her urging and follows her to the basins. He removes his boots, cursing under his breath and protesting all the while. She doesn’t ask, just strips him of sweat stained clothing, and uses a cloth to carefully wash the day’s grime away. First from his neck and shoulders, and then across his chest.

She lingers on a puckered scar across his ribs, and he nearly tells her about its origin. He nearly says John’s name to begin the tale. Nearly.

James drifts within the abyss of his own thoughts until Madi suddenly pinches his side, and says, “I’m not fond of how you’ve thinned out in these last months.” James grunts and twists away from her prying hands, holding her wrist away. She isn’t often playful these days, so his heart fills when these small moments emerge unexpectedly. Madi smiles, and continues, “I think I’ll bring a hen from the market tomorrow. Maybe two.”

James just nods his acceptance. The darkness that always clouds his mood when he’s not working on the house has not afforded him much appetite as of late, but he’s grown to appreciate her need to take care of him. He wishes he could thank her more often for it, so he’ll eat well if she requires it of him.  

She purchased a small cake of soap last week, something that reminds him of the luxuries of London in his younger years with Miranda and Thomas. It has a musky floral smell to it, full of roses and rain water. He likes that Madi smells of it as she passes him in the narrow hall, and he imagines he must smell the same way, and likes that, too.

Next week, when he’s in town, he’ll purchase seeds for a flower garden to give to her.

When James returns from the house with fresh clothing, Madi is washing herself idly. With her back to him, he takes a moment to appreciate the curve of her hips and the fullness of her bottom.

“You’re beautiful,” James says from where he’s leaning against the door, but ducks his head to hide the embarrassed flush to his cheeks.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling coyly over her shoulder at him.

James doesn’t know why he’s shy around her now. He had shared her with Silver in those few weeks before the end. He knows the sound of her heartbeat against her ribs, the shake of her thighs when she comes, the way her breath catches with the soft brush of fingertips under her navel, the taste of her. It shouldn’t be any different when it’s just them, but somehow it feels as if he’s learning her all over again.

Without John as the bridge between them, it’s all so different.

“James.” Her voice is gentle, calling him to her by name. He doesn’t remember when she started using his first name instead of ‘captain’.

When he doesn’t move, she comes to him, leaving the cloth and soap at her feet. She curls her hand around James’ forearm, and he fits his palm to the small of her back and traces the water droplets clinging to her shoulder. He leans forward to smell the soap on her, and takes the linens resting nearby to dry her damp skin.

He wants to pull away, retreat into the darkness again, but she keeps him still, anchored to her.

After, she takes his hand and leads him up the narrow stairs to the bed.

James cannot say intimacy has been a priority for either of them as of late, but sometimes they try, sometimes succeeding in being present with each other, sometimes not. It’s comfortable like this, at least. Her body is soft and warm surrounding his, riding his flushed cock steadily as the sun dips lower in the sky. The windows are open to the cool humid air, and the late summer crickets and fireflies are coming alive in the thick brush surrounding the garden.

James feels safe and whole and he allows himself to breathe deeply, just for a little while.

Madi stretches her arms up high and pins her hair up, still seated upon him.

“Do you even enjoy intimacy with women?” she asks with her hands splayed across his chest.

There’s only curiosity to Madi’s tone, so he shoves aside the complex emotions bubbling forward. Shame, regret, and despair are among those easiest to identify, and tries to concentrate only on the question asked of him.

He grips her by the waist and flips them over so she is beneath him, sinking into the woolen blankets. Her cheeks are warm to the touch, flushed with desire. She locks her ankles around his thighs and he finds her clitoris with ease. Sighing at the contact, she guides his wrist into a rhythm she likes before stretching her arms overhead to let him lead her closer to completion.

“I enjoy pleasing you,” he says, nuzzling into her collarbone, because he means it, and because it’s something he said once to Miranda a lifetime ago and meant it then, too. It isn’t the same, not nearly, but James can find pleasure in this with the right person.

“That is not really an answer,” Madi smiles, and she cradles James’ head as he presses a gentle kiss to the center of her chest. She must accept it though, because she doesn’t ask again.

+

When the house is finished and the garden needs less continuous care, they build a short, fenced enclosure and a small hutch big enough for a dozen chickens. The chickens give eggs shortly after, and they sell enough to purchase a dairy goat.

James makes plans for culling a large area of trees in winter so they can clear fields for tobacco planting in the spring. There is profit to be made in tobacco here, and soon they will need it to continue living comfortably. He delays only because he prefers the land to themselves without hired help around to crowd their privacy. Procuring slaves is not something he is ever interested in, not in the slightest, but the demand for labor will call for more hands, come spring.

There’s commotion near the chicken coop, pulling James from his thoughts. The chickens scatter and squawk when Madi suddenly yells in pain, but the goat remains still, chewing with such an air of indifference, James has to smile.

Madi appears with tears streaming her face, and she’s cradling her arm to her chest, covering it with her apron.

James anchors the axe in the tree stump he’s using to chop wood nearby, and runs toward the garden, fearing the worst.

“Madi!” he shouts.

She shouts back, “I’m fine,” and turns away from him, walking toward the house, but James can see blood blooming against her apron.

“You’re not fine. Let me see.” James catches up to her and reaches for her, but she dodges his hands.

“I have survived much worse than a chicken’s scratch, James,” she retorts, and in her anger, she trips on the melon vines at the edge of the vegetable garden, and falls forward with a pained moan. She turns to look up at him, and he stops short of reaching for her a second time, seeing the fury and sorrow on her face.

Her lungs heave and great sobs follow.

“You _have_ survived much worse,” he reassures, because he was there. He knows the truth even if no one else does. He frowns down at her, unsure of what he can do to help. Maybe there’s nothing he can do.

She wipes at her face, and unties the apron from around her waist to secure it more tightly to her arm. James sees the scratch as she does it, and it’s long and caked with dirt, but not deep. The blood is beginning to slow already.

“Tell me it meant something,” she says, and he winces in surprise. “Tell me we fought for something that was _real_ , because every day that passes I feel further removed from it. The possibilities that you insisted were real. I felt so sure of it.”

“It was real,” he reassures, and quieter, he says, “For a moment, it was everything.” He isn’t sure that what he’s saying will be enough, but he tries because he has to _fucking_ _try_. He hates to see her like this, helpless and lost, a different person entirely to the one he met at the Maroon Camp so long ago.

“I was so naive, James.” Her words are broken and small and he wishes there were something he could offer her, some measure of comfort. “I wanted it so badly and didn’t care about the personal cost. I killed them. My family. It wasn’t John’s fault. _I killed them_ with my ideals and my— ill-placed _conviction_.”

James falls to his knees in the grass. It’s a close thing, but he doesn’t touch her.

“How many people can say they truly fought for something they believed in?” he asks. “ _How many?_ You couldn’t have known what would happen. I was so sure it would all end differently. This is not what I wanted.”

“ _I_ was so sure,” she echoes back, but the fight is gone from her words. She stares down at the cut slowly dripping blood onto her skirts and lets the tears fall from her eyelashes.

 


	3. III

The first chilly nights of autumn are upon them soon enough, and the leaves are turning brilliant shades of red and yellow and brown. Neither of them are thrilled for the cold months ahead. It’s been a long time since James has felt the cold bite of winter, and Madi has never known it.

Madi brings a basket of crisp apples from town, and they sit on the porch curled together with a worn copy of _Don Quixote_ between them.  She reads faster than he does, so while she waits for him to turn each page, she idly cuts thick slices of apple with a paring knife for them to share. She’s remarkably good at performing two tasks at once, often better than James is himself.

He couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else, and then she says, “While I was in town today, I stood at the harbor for a while, watching the fishing boats drift out towards the horizon for the morning’s catch. It was silly, but I thought of talking one of the captains into taking me with them. Just for the morning. I guess, just to feel the deck beneath my feet and the salt against my skin. I missed the sea in that moment, James. Do you ever think of returning to it?”

“Hmm?” James hums, pulling himself out of an amusing conversation.

“Would you ever return to it, given the chance?” she tries again.

Her question makes James think of waking on the beach with a mouth full of sand, body bruised and cut and broken with disappointment, staring up at John Silver’s smug smile. The realization of being pulled from the water so close to drowning had overwhelmed him, but the desire to fling himself back into it, to finish it all, surprised him more. He couldn’t breathe, not until John spoke to him, bending the sharp edge of anxiety into something softer and more manageable.

“I fear it would consume what is left of me, if I tried,” James says because _wanting_ it and _letting_ it happen are two very different things. Frowning down at the book, he reads the same three lines four times over before he gives up, concentration fully interrupted by her musings.

“I do not believe that,” she says, and passes him a slice of apple, while taking the book from him. She folds the corner of the page, marking their place, before placing the book down on the step.

He is truly surprised by her reply. “What makes you think I would survive it?” he asks, around a mouth full of fruit. That he would _want_ to survive it.

She crouches in front of him on her knees and cradles his head with her hands, carding her fingers through the strands of his hair falling from the tie.

“Because you are still here,” she says.

He leans forward to kiss her cheek, and she aligns their mouths for a gentle press of lips.

“So are you,” he reminds her, because he thinks maybe she needs to hear it just as much as he does.

+

Autumn leads to winter, and James hires a few loggers to slash and burn enough trees on the land to make way for tobacco fields in early spring.

Madi stares in awe at the snow that drifts down from the heavens, but decides being in it is not something she prefers.

They purchase thick deer skins from the natives living across the valley and keep the hearth fire blazing, choosing to curl up against its heat most nights instead of under piles of blankets in bed.

She smiles at James more easily now.

James befriends a half-native with an English father called Samuel who serves as an interpreter and journeyman for Williamsburg town. When his work brings him home to Virginia, he teaches James marksmanship, bow technique, and deer hunting. James teaches him defensive skills with a sword and how to shoot a pistol, and tries not to think about John during their lessons. On good days, it satisfies some nostalgic need in James for tactical strategy.

James gathers that Samuel had been disowned by his native tribe at some point in his early twenties, so he avoids talking of his past, which is just fine with James because it means he never asks about James’ past either. Samuel’s wife and small son live near enough that Madi often brings them eggs and fresh goat’s milk and they give her dried meat and tea from Boston in return.

In December, James is a good enough shot with the bow to kill a young doe in the woods behind the house. He and Madi dry the meat and eat thick strips of venison well into the winter months.

They read together when neither have the desire for conversation, and they slowly acquire a small collection of books, carefully stacked on the dining table they never use. When the snow forces them indoors, they read and share tea between them.

John is never far from their thoughts, and eventually James speaks of him, of their adventures before Madi came into their lives. She laughs when James tells her John insisted they might be friends one day, and how absurd James had thought it at the time. She speaks of Eleanor and her carefree childhood spent swimming in the bay and playing games among the plantation gardens. She speaks of her mother, and how she was taught never to compromise or apologize for her beliefs, and there is sorrow in her voice when she speaks of her father, the quiet leader of Nassau.

Some days they still feel the weight of their pasts, but it is a little easier to carry that weight every day.

+

When winter gives way to spring, plans for the growing season are underway. Samuel helps James acquire enough day laborers to lay down seed for two fields of tobacco. They decide it’s best to start small. He’ll admit that he doesn’t entirely know what he’s doing, but Madi quietly observes and advises when they’re alone. She is far more knowledgeable about farming than he could ever hope to be, so he lets her lead it in her own quiet way.

In town, James is purchasing a satchel full of seeds for a flower garden and a battered copy of More’s _Utopia_ for Madi when he hears talk of a new arrival in Williamsburg.

“A great ship from the West Indies sailed into the harbor last night. They say it’s manned by pirates from Nassau. I don’t believe a word of it. The pirate threat was extinguished some time ago, and the royal harbor guards would never let them anchor here if it were true. You have experience on the sea, what say you, James?” asks the general store owner before James has a chance to leave quietly. True or not, he wants no part in this conversation.

“I’ll have to see the ship for myself, I suppose,” is all James can think to say in reply before he ducks past them, not wanting them to see the fear he cannot deny.

He won’t give them a guarantee that everything is fine, not if there’s truth to any of it. He’s fought so hard to bury his past in the last year, to lay it all to rest, and he fears it all coming back to the surface with the smallest suggestion.

There’s a chance this great ship’s appearance has nothing to do with James, but there’s a greater chance it has everything to do with James.


	4. IV

The _Walrus_ is, in fact, anchored in Williamsburg harbor among the unassuming merchant ships from the West Indies sugar plantations.

At first, James thinks it petty and presumptuous and a complete show of arrogance for John to give it the same name, but then— he understands. This _Walrus_ , John’s _Walrus_ , is built from the remains of Flint’s _Walrus_. James’ great ship remains a phoenix reborn, and John has given new life to something James thought he would never lay his eyes on again. It looks bigger somehow, like this, remade into something new. The hull is glossy and bright, and the sails are a brilliant white edged with red, but the detail on the windows at the stern, the rails, and the mighty foremast are weathered and worn, breathing familiarity into its presence.

James, who fought and bled and lived aboard her for so long, yearns for the wind in his lungs and the sea salt whipping at his cheeks.

He turns away before it can take hold of him and drown him once more.

It’s only a reflexive response, he reasons.

+

There’s little time to investigate, to prepare any further, before he spots Israel Hands from across the square speaking with the general store owner. He’s almost definitely telling Hands exactly where to find James in this moment.

It would be easy to hide, and he gives it a fair thought, but his anger keeps him rooted to the spot. Madi is home and he’d much rather confront Hands in public, where Hands is less likely to engage in violence, than to put her in any kind of danger later when Hands seeks him out at their estate. His instincts first go to protecting Madi, so they will do this here.

Hands’ mouth curls in recognition, and he takes great lumbering steps toward James, hand on the neck of the axe fastened to his belt. His beard is longer, face leathery and aged, and his hair is wild and unkempt. There’s a clean scar at the base of his throat, a new one, made with a blade. If it were just slightly to the left, James is sure he should have bled out from the wound. He looks like a man who’s spent the better part of this year at sea without rest.

“Is he here?” James asks, foregoing greetings entirely to ask the only question that matters.

James half expects John Silver to appear out of thin air, a ghost of past betrayals, and while James thinks he can probably handle Israel Hands in this moment— he is not ready for John. _Not at all._ He does his best to quell the panic threatening to pull him under as he looks around them. John isn’t here, or is hiding well enough that he doesn’t want to be known and so James wouldn’t see him anyway.

“It’s been a long time, Captain,” Hands greets him. He’s far too loud and far too familiar when he throws an arm around James’ shoulder. He’s behaving as if they’re old friends, not like James nearly killed him, _could have easily killed him_ , the last time they went toe-to-toe.

“I am no longer a captain,” James replies, baring his teeth and not offering any counter greeting. Hands had his part in making that happen so long ago.

“I can see that,” Hands chuckles harshly.

The old familiar anger surfaces so quickly, James can barely contain it. This man before him, _this man_ , convinced John Silver to maroon him back on that fucking island, and James still wants to see him bleed for it. Maybe he’ll reopen that neck wound and do it properly this time.

Hands runs a fist over the shaft of his axe. It’s a warning, James supposes, but he keeps the smile upon his lips. He raises an eyebrow and visibly scans James, obviously determining that he’s gone soft in his retirement. “I imagine you’ll be out of practice.”

“While that may be true, I bested you easily when I was at my peak. I’d wager it to be a fair fight now,” James retorts, remembering the last time they came to blows. He remembers a blade to Hands as he stood over him, defeated, and John Silver at his back, commanding mercy.

“Aye,” Hands agrees, chuckling again, appearing as though he is thoroughly enjoying himself.

James doesn’t have any weapons of any worth on him. There’s a small hunting knife secured to the underside of his left boot if he needs it, but he would rather avoid slitting Hands’ throat in the middle of Williamsburg town square if he can manage it.

“ _Is he here_?” James repeats, with more force this time.

“Now wait just a minute, old friend,” Hands says, holding up his palms in mock defense. “I’ve been looking for you for a long fucking time, you hear? Maybe this conversation between us deserves some pacing.”

James sneers, “If you’ve been looking for me, it means _he’s_ pursuing me and already knows I’m alive.”

“ _Aye_. He knows, but despite my own reservations, Captain Long John Silver isn’t interested in taking your life. He told me to say that to you, by the way.” Hands snorts in obvious disagreement with Silver’s wishes. “But the _cache_ left on that fucking island. He believes he has something of value to you, information, if you’re willing to make the trade, that is.”

There is nothing about Israel Hands that James trusts. This man would manipulate any situation to his advantage, so James holds little value in anything he has to say. John Silver could still very well want him dead after the cache is produced.

“There is _nothing_ John Silver could offer me that is of enough value to see that cache in your hands or his.”

Hands nods his understanding, but there is also a glint in his eye that makes James want to reach for the knife in his boot. “Maybe it’s best you hear him out before deciding that.”

+

When James reaches the house, and has had some time to process what Hands’ proposition means, he says to Madi, “The _Walrus_ is docked in the harbor this day. I have reason to believe John knows where I am and will seek me out, but no reason to suspect he thinks you alive.”

Madi takes a step backward and nearly drops the vegetables she’s carrying in her apron before remembering herself and standing tall.

She takes a deep breath before speaking. “How did he find you?”

James shakes his head, “I don’t know yet.”

“ _Yet_ ,” she repeats. “Your plan involves demanding an explanation?”

“I cannot live my life in fear of when he might appear again. If he knows I am alive, he will have his say. Of that much I am certain.”

And then something occurs to James that he had not thought about before. “Do you wish to be here when he comes to me?”

Madi sighs and places the vegetables on the table in front of the hearth. Her back is to him when she speaks again, hand low on her belly. “I have found it difficult to remove him entirely from my thoughts. He took the great war from us, that much _I know_ for certain. Despite what he has or has not done, I want to understand, but I do not think I am ready to know the truth. When I know for _sure_ he did nothing to prevent the deaths of my family, there will be nothing left to hope for.”

James nods in agreement. “I do not know what he has become without us, and my instincts say to protect you from it.”

A long time ago, Madi might have protested his assumption that she needs protecting, but now, she simply takes his advice at face value.

+

For the next two days, James thinks about what he might say to John Silver when he comes.

He thinks he’ll take a knife to John’s throat and watch him bleed for all the wrongs done to him, for the wrongs done to Madi, for the months spent in mourning over a war that was taken from him, for an entire island of good people forced into slavery when John turned his back on it all.

For holding him responsible for Madi’s choices, for denying James vengeance for the death of Thomas, for refusing to allow the world to burn when Flint wanted nothing more.

There are other times when he thinks he’s just as likely to crawl to John on his hands and knees and beg forgiveness for everything he never said and all the ways they failed each other. _Trust me_.  He thinks he might plead with John to take him back to the sea so that they might drown each other properly this time.

When John does come, James is so tired of the possibilities, he has stopped trying to plan for them. He isn’t afraid of John, certainly not of death, and he owes Madi answers. That’s what matters. Whatever else happens, well— the rest is all superfluous in the end.

+

Just as the sky is settling into twilight, John comes to him on horseback. He stops beyond the gate to their estate and hoists himself down from the horse, crutch ready for his dismount. His movements are sure and deliberate as he strides toward James on the small path.

James stays where he is, seated on the porch with a book in his hands, Homer’s _Odyssey,_ as it happens to be. He’s dressed in a white shirt and breeches, and his feet are bare. There are no weapons within his reach. It’s hardly a uniform for a confrontation, but he isn’t sure suiting up would change what’s going to happen anyway.

The crutch-boot-crutch rhythm of John’s gait brings forth a barrage of memories, hitting James so suddenly he can hardly remain still.

 _A brush of fingertips across his bare shoulder, bruised skin against his lips and blood on his tongue, words whispered to the shell of his ear._ ‘ _This is living. This is freedom. We don’t need the rest of it, James. Trust me.’_

That’s all it takes, James thinks, just his proximity, to send James reeling backward in time, but, no— they are both changed men. That much is easy to see, and there’s nothing to do about the ache for a time long past.

While the earth shifted under their feet, his Odysseus has still managed to return home, James thinks distantly. While it is completely absurd, it still makes him smile, just enough that he’s sure it remains hidden in the shadow of the setting sun.

He’s not ready for this and maybe knowing its inevitability makes the whole thing worse.

John ascends the porch steps like he’s been here before, like he’s welcome. He pulls himself up the railing, stopping when his boot is inches from James’ hip.

“Have you nothing to say to me?” John says into the silence, voice gruff, like he hasn’t spoken aloud in some time.

John enters the house without permission, and James keeps his eyes on the horizon but folds the page of the book he’s reading and places it next to him on the step.

 _I have a novel’s length of words to say to you_ , James thinks. _A million ways to say everything I wish to say, but no entry point from which to begin_.

“Why are you here?” James begins on a sigh, because that’s easy. It doesn’t burn the way the other words might. And if they get to the point, maybe John might leave him sooner.

John hums in acknowledgement. “Yes, but first— _you_ have to tell me how you got off that _fucking_ island.”

James can’t see him, but he hears him moving about the room, picking things up and replacing them with care, gathering information about his new surroundings and probably determining the likelihood of James’ anger coming between them.

“It appears there was less loyalty amongst your men than you had previously thought.”

“ _Fucking Rackham_ ,” he says to no one in particular, and it’s so automatic that he’s sure John had suspected it already, and was only awaiting its confirmation. James hears a heavy weight fall to one arm chair in the sitting room, the weight of tired bones gone long without the comforts of a home.

Rackham had sent a sloop in secret to Skeleton Island to retrieve Flint, with clear instructions to aid him in disappearing. Flint had accepted rescue until they were near enough to Nassau for him to bind the hands of the sloop’s captain and take command of the ship himself. At that time, his singular thought was taking the life of Governor Rogers. Nothing more. And his assumption was always that Rackham had anticipated James’ rage and quietly supported one final, indirect attempt at Rogers’ assassination. There was nothing more to do, not until Madi had appeared alive.

James stands and cautiously moves to lean against the doorway, staring in at John now seated in the sitting room.

The house is in shadows without candlelight, but James can see John clearly. His dark hair and beard are longer.  Small braids are twisted with bits of twine and sea glass and shells. His shoulders have broadened with the hard muscle required to maneuver himself on the crutch with ease, to appear without weakness in front of his men, and his skin is a deeper shade of bronze, hardened by the sun and salted air, but his eyes remain the same shade of blue found in a cloudless sky on open water.

The heavy jacket he wears is shrugged off and discarded to the floor, leaving sand and salt and dirt in its wake. It conceals two pistols within a gun holster, which John removes as well to join the coat at his feet. A blade, the same cutlass gifted to him by James on the Maroon Island, rests on the table behind them, framed by his and Madi’s books. He must have already removed it when he entered the house minutes ago.

James looks upon him and wonders if John had planned to use those same weapons against him, if he had thought as much about what he might say or do to James as James had thought to do to him.

John looks as if he hasn’t slept in months and hasn’t felt solid ground under his feet in longer. James knows what that kind of travel-weary exhaustion feels like.

“Can I trust you won’t slit my throat if I rest here a while?” John asks, eyes closed already from where he is seated. “You and I have much to discuss, but first I require rest, especially if you anticipate said discussion coming to blows.” His arrogance should make James reach for his blade without question.

“You intend to stay?” James asks instead. His words come out much softer than he had planned.

“For a while,” John answers. “If you’ll have me.”


	5. V

Among all the possibilities, this was the least expected.

Captain Long John Silver, a man who betrayed him and was betrayed by him, a man who left him for dead, is milking James’ goat at sunrise while shivering in a borrowed white tunic. It fits him far better now than James’ clothes ever did in the past. His hair is still wet from a recent wash.

James stays in the house and busies himself with morning tasks, waiting, but growing more unsettled by the minute.

After a while, John brings the warm milk in a tin bucket to the hearth, and James frowns down at his bare foot and crutch leaving muddy prints across the wood. “Yes, the shirt.” John pauses, looking down at himself with a sheepish grin. He’s reacting to James’ frown in exactly the wrong way. “I washed mine, but it’s too wet to wear just yet. I didn’t want to wake you.”

James wants to shout at him and make him bleed, wants to feel his pulse slowing beneath his hands because that’s easier than this game he’s playing. John Silver is a lot of things, but foolish is certainly not one of them. James will not pretend they are friends, and that nothing in the last year mattered to him or to Madi.

“How did you know I had escaped the island?” James asks because he cannot delay this any longer.

“I went back for you,” John says as if it should be obvious, something no one would question.

“You went back for the _cache_ ,” James corrects, hoping his disdain is getting through to John.

“For _you_ ,” John insists. And James scoffs, because he won’t hear of this. John’s a gifted liar, but James won’t allow his emotions to be manipulated so easily, and he won’t allow John to insinuate himself back into James’ life without explanation or recompense.

“ _I_ went back for you,” John tries again. “The others, well, the others went back for the cache, as you said. We were convinced you were dead for a while when we didn’t find you there, but you cannot honestly think you could remain anonymous in a _fucking_ place like this. _You_ of all people.”

James did honestly think that, but the irrationality of such a thing is suddenly clearer. He wonders who might know his identity among the townspeople.

He looks away from John because he can’t bear the way his hair hangs in his face, dripping down to wet the front of James’ half-buttoned shirt. John’s cutlass is still where he left it, but a few of the books are at odd angles, misplaced by curious hands. The guns and jacket lay where they fell last night, joined by John’s belt and one worn and heavy boot.

John forces himself back into James’ line of sight. He pulls his hair back and fastens it together at his crown. “I wanted you dead for a long time. For choosing that fucking war over her life, for choosing the war over _us_. And then one day, I didn’t anymore. I had forgotten all the reasons for hating you. I just— _missed you_.”

“Get out,” James says, consequences be damned. He was prepared for a fight, for a John Silver that was unrecognizable, for something that wasn’t— _this_.

“No,” John counters, then gives him a pained expression. “Why?”

“Because you cannot honestly think I believe any of what you claim!” James is exasperated that he has to say as much.

“Yeah?” John shouts back. “I am more than willing to _show you_ my sincerity,” John counters. There are too many possibilities to truly gather what John might mean by that.

“You are not welcome here any longer,” James says, turning to leave the room, to ascend the narrow stairs so he can find his clothing and his pistol and end this forcibly.

“So I leave, and what then? You’ll be a _farmer_ for the rest of your life? We took a merchant prize last month off the Carolina coast that had fifty barrels of dried tobacco aboard. We sold that tobacco in Port Royal for double it would have gathered in London. And _triple_ what you’ll make from it after a season of growing it here. You tell me which is the better deal!”

“There is more to life than taking a prize. You understood that once,” James says from the bedroom, and his words, while he means them, surprise him just as much as he anticipates they might surprise John.

“What _I understand_ is everything _you_ taught me,” John says, and his voice is still coming from the hearth.

When James descends the stairs, fully dressed now, John only looks up until James cocks the hammer, pointing the pistol at him with fury in his eyes. He tells himself he’ll do it. John could have nothing to say to him that might change that, and least of all a half-formed plan to lead him back to the sea to uncover the buried cache. James has decided his life here with Madi is worth more than the lies John would continue feeding him.

“Don’t you think this is all just a bit dramatic?” John sighs. He doesn’t move from his position, one hip fitted against the side of the table near the hearth to keep his balance, while his crutch rests against a chair. He keeps his expression carefully neutral, but the flicker of his gaze toward his own guns does not go unnoticed either.

“In those final days, when you tried to convince me, and _her_ , that _we_ were what mattered, not the war, how quickly it all faded once _she_ was gone. Once you had marooned me and only cared to save yourself and no one else. Now, you would manipulate me into giving you the cache, the last way to use me for your own gain.”

John’s expression turns from neutral to furious as James finishes speaking. He reaches for his crutch and takes a step closer. James holds the gun at eye level, finger flush against the trigger.

“Whatever you think you understand about what I did, I can _guarantee_ you are misinformed,” John says, and James searches for any bit of insincerity, the slightest spark of deception, and when he finds none, he waits, listening to his heartbeat pound and the air fail to fill his lungs properly.

He’s far too stubborn in this moment to ask for elaboration, so he waits.

“I take full responsibility for my actions concerning you,” John says, choosing his words very carefully. He pauses, dampening his temper. “I could not bear what had happened to her, and in my grief, I allowed others to influence my decision to remove you from my life, but _after_. After I realized the grave danger I had put Madi’s people in once Rogers aimed to engage me in a chase, I tried to stop what transpired, but I failed in saving them all, and failed to keep their home safe. I take responsibility for that as well.”

John breathes out, like the next part pains him greatly. “I will not ask for your forgiveness. That is not why I came here. It isn’t something I deserve. I only ask for the opportunity to explain how I have tried to make amends.”

“If you aim to deceive me on this, _I will kill you_ ,” Flint grits out, gun still raised.

“I believe you.” John seems surprised by his admission and more than a little concerned. “I have only my word,” he continues. “And a plan that’s only half-formed. And a letter.” He moves to his jacket, and James follows him with the gun, but relaxes just slightly, feeling the muscles in his face twitch at the effort to keep himself in control.

“You said you failed to save them all,” James states.

“The queen lives,” John says, extending a battered letter toward James. “Keza, Madi’s young sister and her daughter, Amelia. _They are alive._ Later, we also found Eme who managed to escape to Port Royal just before Madi’s death. I only wish I could have done more, but there wasn’t time. We were fractured by that point. Rackham had abandoned us. We were outgunned and despite my compromised state of mind after losing you both, there simply wasn’t enough _time_.”

“Where are they?” James growls, still disbelieving him.

“Savannah,” John answers without hesitation. “Under the care of Mr. George Winthrop, an English cotton plantation proprietor who also happens to be engaged to Miss Abigail Ashe.”

“You delivered Madi’s family from slavery in Hispaniola _into slavery_ in Savannah?”

John winces, but stands his ground. “Of a sort. It is true the papers in Abigail’s possession assert ownership of the four of them, but I assure you they are well taken care of. Abigail holds no ill-will towards you for the death of her father and Mr. Winthrop is sympathetic to the plight of Nassau despite his ever-increasing need for labor upon the plantation. They earn a fair wage, are afforded housing on the estate, and freedom to keep a small garden and livestock for personal use. _I assure you_ , Abigail would not stand for less, and I would not have left them in her care if I believed otherwise.”

John sees the look of displeasure on James’ face, so he continues.

“I could hardly keep them secreted away on a pirate ship for any length of time. This is what I could offer them, protection at a cost to absolute freedom. It’s not perfect, and I know it would not be what Madi wanted, but— without more favorable options, they accepted it.”

James lowers his gun and takes the letter offered to him. He opens it, fingers trembling only slightly. It is addressed to James Flint, dated a month ago, and is written in the Maroon Queen’s hand.  It is no more than a few lines, just a simple reassurance that they are alive and well and to trust John’s word. It is signed by all four, including Amelia, who could not be more than six years old now.

John gestures toward the letter. “Despite my general optimism, I had anticipated you might not believe me, given how our last encounter ended.”

James nods but cannot think of what to say in response to all of this.

Four members of Madi’s family are alive. James wants to believe this is true, and while they are not free, seeing them again _is_ a possibility that would not have been true otherwise. He isn’t sure how Madi will react to this news. He cannot imagine her immediate response will be to give John her forgiveness, but she will be grateful to know at least John _tried_. James decides it is still her decision to make, whether to reveal herself to John in consideration of this new information.

“You spoke of a plan?” James asks, but before John can answer, something catches John’s eye and he’s ducking to retrieve his pistol so quickly James hardly has time to process it. He cocks it at eye-level, ready to shoot at something sighted behind James’ shoulder.

James reels around and shouts, “No!” and levels his own weapon, pointed with purpose at John once again.

“Show yourself!” John shouts at the back door, ignoring James’ warning.

It’s Samuel. He raises his hands in surrender at the back door and drops the hunting knife from his hands.

“He’s a friend, John. A neighbor. _Do not_ shoot him.”

“I was informed you had a visitor, and I heard shouting as I approached,” Samuel explains. “Is everything alright, James?” Samuel gives James a confused look, like he believes the situation to be unsafe. He is right to question it, James supposes.

John uncocks his gun and lowers it, and James does the same.

“Samuel, this is John,” James offers, keeping cautious eyes on John. At Madi’s insistence, Samuel was told enough about John Silver to know he should keep his distance if they ever encountered one another. Had he not been informed, his loyalty may have had him killed moments ago. James is grateful for that small mercy.

“It will be best if you do not move so silently next time, _friend_ ,” John warns. “Especially while wielding a knife of that size. One may misinterpret your intentions.”

“Samuel, you should leave us,” James says before further antagonizing comments can be made. Samuel is not one to let such things go unchallenged. James moves toward the door and pulls Samuel with him, along the path and away from the house. He hopes John does not follow.

When they near the estate’s edge, James reassures Samuel that John is not a threat to him, though he is admittedly not so sure of that yet, and passes the letter written by Madi’s mother to him. Madi had agreed to stay with Samuel’s family while they were still unsure of John’s intentions, and now, James decides it is best to give her the choice to reveal herself to John, given the information contained in the letter.

While there is still some part of him that is cautious of John Silver’s reaction to Madi being alive, he tells Samuel to allow her to come to them if she desires.


	6. VI

John has a plan.

“It’s a terrible plan,” James tells him. He’s sitting on the back porch, just outside the door, watching John cut a fresh winter melon with care.

John is brash enough that he’ll probably wait James out until he’s had time to sort the variables and anticipate the problems of this _terrible plan_. He’ll wait for James to make it a better plan, and give him ownership of it in the process. And then James will inevitably feel the pull of the sea again, but he won’t say yes until he’s convinced himself this _terrible plan_ is rational enough to work.

_“Damn him_ ,” James grumbles at the book he isn’t reading.

Licking the juice from his fingers, John empties the pieces into a large bowl and carries it over to where James is sitting with the forgotten book wilted in his hand.

“Even if we had the cache to buy their freedom,” and James can hear himself, really he can. He knows he shouldn’t indulge this, but he can’t help himself either. Perhaps there are parts of Flint left in him after all. “I’m not sure even _you’d_ be able to convince your crew this plan has merit.  Even Hands appears to be unaware of the true reason for needing to uncover it, and you’d be a fool to count Rackham out of any of this. He’s bound to resurface when he gains wind of any plan that involves uncovering the cache.”

John hums his acknowledgement, but most of his attention is on taking great bites of the fruit.

“God, I haven’t tasted something _so fucking good_ since—” but he seems to catch himself before his thoughts get ahead of him. He licks the juice from his lips, and James blinks at him. “In a long fucking time.”

James chooses to ignore what might have been said. “You’d have to find them first, all of the Maroons, and then convince the plantation owners on Hispaniola to take stolen payment from their _own king_ for their trouble.”

“If I were in any kind of honest business, I’d do it,” John shrugs. He offers James some fruit, and he accepts it like this is all a normal part of their day.

“Maybe that’s the very reason you’re _not_ in any kind of honest business. Slaves are valuable assets, John. They’re not something you just give up without something else to replace the labor, no matter how greedy you think someone may be. The Maroons will inevitably be replaced with other slaves. What makes one slave’s life more valuable than another?”

“Who that slave happens to be related to? I’m sure you’ll think of something,” John says, completely unconcerned.

“It’s not that simple, and— I’ll remind you once again. _I_ haven’t agreed to anything.” Especially considering the big factor remaining is Madi. James will not undermine her wishes. Not after everything else. He’s still quietly bracing himself for the reunion he knows may or may not happen soon.

“Fine,” John maintains, sensing boundaries being pushed too far.

Even when the silence lapses between them, and they’re left to their own thoughts, they’re still sitting too close, and John is still wearing his shirt. And _God, help him,_ James finds he doesn’t mind all that much. The true depth of madness he feels when in this man’s company has no limits, it would seem.

James frowns down at his hands, now sticky with melon juice. “We had pistols to each other’s heads two hours ago, and now we’re sharing fruit.”

“Progress,” John shrugs.

+

It rains the next day.

James spends the morning overseeing the priming of the first crop of ripened leaves from the tobacco fields. The leaves are bundled by the laborers and brought to storage where they will dry before being sold.

At mid-morning, John loses interest in farming and spends the rest of it flipping through pages of James’ books but never settling on anything. At noon, James finds him on the porch sharpening his sword with a stone.

“You could have started the fire,” James grouches. He’s soaked through his clothes, and he removes his boots on the steps, shivering.

“I sharpened your blades,” John says, grimacing at the way James shivers.

James sees his work on the table. The second sword was tucked away in the bedroom upstairs. John must have gone through his things to find it. While he’s not exactly surprised, he is weary of John finding something of Madi’s there. They were careful to pack away her things before she left for Samuel’s place, but there’s always a chance they missed something.

James wants to believe she’ll come, but he will respect her decision if she doesn’t. Despite his determination to keep it, he dislikes lying to John, even if it’s only by omission.

“I also repaired the roof of the chicken coop. There were a few leaks around the joints.”

“You’ve kept busy,” James comments absently. He holds the sword in his right hand to feel the weight of it, and tests the edge to verify that John took care in sharpening it correctly. He can’t remember if he taught John to properly care for a blade during their lessons. He must have.

In the doorway, John playfully brings his cutlass to clash against James’.  He pushes forward, putting his weight against James, until he half-heartedly counters. Standing still, John brings the blade to James’ neck in slow motion. The metal is cool against his skin, bringing forth another round of shivers, but James keeps eye contact.

“Aren’t you curious to know if I’ve improved?” John asks, removing the sword with a cocky flick of his wrist. James estimates that to be a very real possibility. Skill with a sword takes practice, something that James hasn’t had much of in the last year. If the carefully defined muscles of John’s back and shoulders and arms are any indication, he certainly appears stronger than when James last spared with him, and strength can make the difference over skill.

James pushes wet hair out of his eyes. “I won’t spar with you in my house.”

“You’re already wet.” John backs down the steps leading to a path between the gardens, out toward the tobacco fields. He has one arm outstretched in invitation.

Stalling will likely be ineffective, but James tries anyway. “Your crutch will be no good in the mud.”

“I think you can let _me_ worry about that,” John challenges, a smug smile upon his lips.

“You’re still wearing my fucking shirt,” James complains, because before this begins, he can’t let that small detail left unsaid.

John just laughs, knowing James has already given in.

He thinks about putting his boots on again, but John doesn’t have his, so they’ll do this with bare feet. It’s a terribly dangerous idea, especially in the rain, but James will admit that it’s the biggest thrill he’s felt in a long time. And doing this with John, well, there’s nothing else like it.

The shirt is soaked now, plastered to John’s front and he picks at it in discomfort, just to have it return to the same waterlogged state, defining the muscle and bronzed skin beneath. There’s a new tattoo partially concealed at his right shoulder, extending down to his elbow. It’s hard to decipher under the shirt, but it appears to be sweeping waves tumbling over each other in a storm. James will have to get a closer look.

The fine rain droplets tinkle across the metal of the sword when he holds it up, and John’s wide smile radiates joy when James finally steps off the porch. The wet grass and mud seep into his feet, and James finds it is not a pleasant feeling. Leaving little time for James to acclimate to the cold and damp again, John advances, taking the lead. The conceit doesn’t go unchecked when James counters with equal passion.

They trade blows for a while, slowly at first, as if they are both relearning how they fit together like this. It used to be so easy, and now it’s as if time has distorted them both just enough that they must bend and curve to reform the balance between them. That notion isn’t without its own thrill, James muses. John is also doing his fair share of showing off, keeping the mood light and friendly.

“Fuck, I _missed_ this,” John says, vocalizing every thought James is mirroring. He shakes the sticky hair out of his eyes and licks the water from his lips. He blinks water out of his eyes, until James nearly reaches for him just to put an end to the endless distraction.

John continues, “Those weeks we spent on that cliff before the battle at Nassau. I can’t remember ever feeling _so alive_ before. I think I knew then. _What you meant to me._ I didn’t know how to say it, or act on it, but that’s when I knew.”

He stops suddenly and gives James such a breathless look of happiness, that James has to blink the droplets from his eyelashes and focus on their swords so he doesn’t have to meet John’s eyes.

James knew far sooner than that.

When the Urca treasure was found spilled upon the sand for miles in every direction, James woke to a mouth full of sand, cuts and bruises, and John’s careful words grounding him in reality. There were suddenly a thousand possibilities and not one of them excluded John from the outcome. That’s when James knew what was taking shape between them, but that kind of gutting confession can certainly wait for another day.

After everything, John still doesn’t seem to understand how fucking distracting he is, so he continues, “I was so sore at the end of each day of practice, but it didn’t matter because you were giving me all of your attention and _I felt alive with it_. My leg and hip would ache so badly, hands blistered and trembling, and Madi would—”

John stops suddenly.

And then, “Madi,” John breathes, face suddenly contorting into an anguished expression. His mouth hangs open in surprise as he takes great breaths of air into his lungs.

Without looking, James knows who must have caught John’s eye behind them, off to the tree line and walking from the direction of Samuel’s estate.

“Madi?” John cries out, dropping the sword to a sloshing puddle at his foot, making James wince at his carelessness. “Is it her?” John demands. “Or is this some great and terrible nightmare where I _find you_ but have to relive her death over and over as some kind of awful punishment for all the things I cannot possibly—”

“Go to her,” James gently urges, freeing him from more words he cannot endure.

John doesn’t need further convincing.

When James turns, John and Madi are colliding at the edge of the tree line. John picks her up by the waist, forgetting the crutch, and that he’s no longer stable enough to take the weight of another person without it. They fall together in the mud and rain.

“You’re not dead. You’re _here_ ,” John is sobbing into her neck when James reaches them. “How are you _here_?”

“It’s okay. _Hush_ ,” she soothes. James knows she’s crying too, but her tears mix with the rain until there are just great sobs and gasps for breath between them. John holds her so tightly to him, twisting her water-heavy skirts around them until they’re pressed chest to chest. His hands are everywhere at once: her shoulders, her face, her back, as if he cannot settle on the parts he needs to touch to confirm she is real and not in his imagination.

“I couldn’t stay away,” she says, looking up at James as she speaks. “I tried. I thought it might be better that way, but— I’m such a fool to have thought I could stay away from you, _from you both_.”

James shivers and holds his arms to his body as he waits, watching them cling to one another.

“How?” and then John whips around to face James, expression accusing, as he looks up with the rain streaming down his face. “You knew? You must have known. _You fucking knew_ she was alive all this time and you didn’t say— _Why did you keep her from me?_ ”

The words are laced with so much hurt James takes two steps back, feeling the regret well up inside him so suddenly. It’s true, and there’s nothing to justify it beyond the need to keep his word to her.

Madi braces her hands to John’s cheeks and holds him to look her in the eyes.

“It was my choice to stay away. James respected that. _I didn’t know who you were anymore_.”

+

James thinks they would have stayed in the rain for an age without his quiet pleading for them to return to the house.

With the euphoria of their unexpected reunion fading, John and Madi talk in shouted whispers on the porch, dripping and cold but unconcerned by the weather.  There was a lot of emotion left to simmer in their absence from one another, and neither have been known to let old wounds alone. Anticipating some friction, though he’s unsure to what degree, James quickly changes his own wet clothes and returns to mediate if he’s needed.

“ _That fucking war_ ,” John is hissing when James returns, voice becoming louder by the second. “I would still trade my freedom, _my life_ , for another _hour_ with you before I would take the rest back.” He wrenches off the wet shirt, James’ wet shirt, and throws it down to the porch where it produces a heavy squelching sound. “I will not apologize for taking that _fucking_ war from you.”

“Your platitudes and attempts at placating me will not change how I feel,” Madi says. She is shivering, but James doesn’t dare touch her in this moment.

“I was never going to be enough,” John whines. He pleads with his expression for Madi to deny it, but she doesn’t. “And now—”

He pulls at the ties to his trousers, caring very little about his own nudity. James grits his teeth and hopes the hired help around the tobacco fields have enough sense to leave them be, because John’s shouting will certainly gather some attention, even in the rain.

“John. Please be sensible,” James tries.

“No, _fuck you_ ,” he yells at James, but he takes the dry shirt offered to him. “I will not be calm or _sensible_ , and I don’t give a _fuck_ about what any of _your people_ think about me. You have both spent a year branding me a monster for the choices I made. _I know who I am._ I know the weight I’ve carried every day as I tried to set things right, even when I thought you were both dead. While you conveniently had each other, I had to live my life without hope of _ever_ being near to either of you again. What does it take to—”

“Yours was the final word in marooning Captain Flint, and in that decision, _you_ chose to end the war, _our war_ , without consent or thought toward consequences for my people. For those decisions, I will grant you _my_ forgiveness when I am ready, _if at all_ , and not a moment before,” Madi says. “Your impatience and arrogance only make me want to consider it for longer.”

Madi doesn’t wait for John’s reply. In her anger, she enters the house and disappears up the stairs toward the bedroom.

“John, _wait,_ ” James grabs his arm, but John shrugs him away. “Give her some time to process the ways you’ve made amends. You will not change her mind with hasty words spoken in this moment. If anything, you’ll only succeed in making it all worse.”

“I _cannot_ let her alone. _Not now,_ ” John says, and ascends the stairs after Madi in only a borrowed undershirt that barely reaches his thighs.  

The shouting continues for a while, but it’s muffled enough with the door closed that James tries hard not to listen. James has had his say with John already. It’s Madi’s turn, and she will absolutely take this opportunity to speak her mind.

Once their argument dims to a low rumble, James forces himself to stop pacing. He boils a stew at the hearth and waits for either of them to need him.

+

When the sun is nearly down, and James is lighting the first candles, John slowly descends the stairs.

“She’s sleeping,” he says and stands to warm himself at the fire, light throwing his face into dancing shadows. He sounds distracted, and there’s a deep frown between his brows.

John doesn’t have any trousers on, just the clean shirt given to him earlier, sleeves rolled up to reveal the outline of the tattoo sweeping across his bicep. He helps himself to the stew and perches near the window with his hip cocked into the frame for balance. James also notices a new scar across his upper thigh, short in length but deep, the cut of an axe, no doubt. The scar is wide but clean, and leaves James to conclude it must have been left to fester for some time before healing into a deep scar. It’s still pink with new skin. It must not have been an easy transition to captain, and James finds himself itching to hear the tales. He thinks to offer John a seat but changes his mind. If John wants to sit, he’ll sit.

“I know why you did what you did,” John says to him. “I thought she was dead for a _whole fucking year_ , but I understand why you both did what you did. While I am angry, I am— also grateful.”

“I made a promise,” James says. “To both of you.”

“Yes,” John confirms, breathing deeply. “I know that as well.”


	7. VII

In the morning, James is half asleep when Madi tucks into him on the sofa where he’s lying. Without question, he pulls the woolen blankets around her shoulders until she’s comfortably pressed all along the length of his body. The house is quiet, but the chickens are waking in the garden. They have a few minutes more to talk quietly before the work will begin. He breathes in her scent and holds her cool feet between his.

“I missed you,” she whispers and presses a kiss to the ridge of his brow.

“I thought it best to keep some distance,” James whispers back, gently guiding her hair away from her face.

“You must know you are always welcome.”

James isn’t afraid to be physically present with them. It’s not that at all. “I’ve had my say with him. It was your turn.”

“You’ve had your say?” she asks curiously. “Was it more or less emotionally exhausting than mine with him?”

James swallows and ducks his head to rest against her shoulder. “I cannot say, though ours involved pistols and threats of death instead of lengthy arguing. The outcome is far from settled, but I think we know where we stand with each other now.”

Madi doesn’t ask for further explanation, just sighs to show her weariness of it all. “I am not sorry I missed it. Though I am sorry I placed the burden of keeping my secret from John on you.”

James nods. “Do you trust his word?”

“While I have not forgiven him for marooning you and for stealing the great war from us, he is taking responsibility for those unforgivable things. I want to believe his intentions come from a place of genuine care for me and for you. He loves you so very deeply, James, but it took those unforgivable things for him to truly understand that.”

“He loves you, too.”

“We will go to Savannah,” Madi says with some finality.

“We’ll go to Savannah,” James echoes back.

+

John finds them like that, pressed together and dozing while the curtains flutter open in the morning breeze.

“I need to sort some things with my crew, but I intend to return by sundown,” John says at the doorway.

“We will be here,” James mumbles, closing his eyes once again, John’s profile imprinted to the darkness behind his eyelids.

+

John says he will stay as long as it takes for them to make ready for Savannah. There is a quiet urgency to Madi’s wishes to see her family, but she also tells James they will wait for the growing season to slow so their small estate can be managed well in their absence. She wants something to return to, and James understands that.

“I can stay,” James offers quietly. “You and John can—”

“I do not wish you to remain behind. No, I do not wish to be parted from you or him for _any_ length of time,” Madi whispers to him, pulling him near enough to wrap her arms around his middle and lean against his shoulder in the doorway. “Not ever.”

For now, James knows these words are only meant for him.

+

“She won’t speak to me,” John complains, roughly sitting down next to James on the porch where he is checking accounting ledgers for the tobacco. Madi is feeding the chickens and pointedly ignoring everything else.

“I am an unlikely source of sympathy concerning her, John,” James replies.

“I’m not looking for your sympathy. I just— _miss her_ , and she’s _right fucking there_.” John gestures toward her.

“You cannot expect things to be as they were.”

“Thank you,” John huffs sarcastically. “That is painfully obvious.”

The fine lines of John’s tattoo catch James’ eye. He’s still not used to seeing it there, but it serves as a reminder of how they have all changed. Now that John’s closer, he takes a moment to examine the details. It is of waves crashing in a tempest, great whitecaps over swirls of sea, but he missed the tiny rowboat before with an even tinier ‘J’ and ‘M’ etched into the wood grain of the two oars. While it is surprisingly well done, James isn’t sure he’s comfortable being part of it. He would not have approved of such a thing had he been informed, but he can’t help wanting to trace his fingertips over the black ink anyway.

Honestly, it doesn’t surprise him at all that John would desire such a permanent and transparent endearment.

“Who gave you that?” James shrugs toward John’s arm.

John looks down at his shoulder, bending his arm so he can see it better, as if the tattoo disappears when it isn’t visible to him.

He runs his hand over his arm, distorting the image so the waves appear in motion. “In pursuit of a prize, we picked up a Spaniard off the Florida Keys five months ago. He was covered in etchings like these, done by himself and others, so I took advantage of his expertise. It hurt like hell, took far longer than I ever imagined, and the man fell ill of a fever and died days after it was finished, so I imagine it will be my one and only. Do you like it?” and John’s sincere question makes James frustrated.

“While I’m flattered to be included, I do not think such a blatant display of affection is quite necessary.”

“Yes, I imagined if we ever met again, you would say something similar,” John replies, blue eyes shining. “Maybe that’s another reason I wanted it.” He runs his fingertips over the lines absently, eyes following Madi’s movements. “I guess we all deal with grief in different ways.”

For a moment, James thinks of his head swimming in rum and ghosts in the darkness telling him to end it all.

“And the scar?”

John looks confused, so James touches his thigh, over the place where he can remember the scar hides beneath John’s trousers. “Here.”

“Oh, _that one_.” John brings his own hand down to trace the exact place of it, brushing against James’ fingers. “Hands and I had a difficult transition to captain and quartermaster.”

“He did that to you?” and James tries to keep his tone neutral but suspects he fails miserably.

“Yes,” John confirms and has the audacity to smile about it, “but please know I gave as good as I got.”

And James remembers the jagged scar at Hands’ neck that no one should have survived, further disfiguring a man whom had already endured significant scarification.

James isn’t sure if John will go into detail about it, but he waits, finding he needs to hear the story to put some perspective on John’s life as captain. It’s an idea that still hasn't settled with him, but John probably feels similarly about him as a farmer.

After a few minutes, John continues. “It happened two weeks after taking Madi’s family to Savannah. By that point, Hands had decided he’d be better suited as captain. He questioned my judgement in front of the men and accused me of fucking you before and after the siege at Nassau. He spread rumors about my intention to return to _Skeleton Island_ _for you_ , not for the cache.”

John watches his expression carefully, looking for some indication that James believes him. James just listens and tries not to long for the sea. “And of course, all of what Hands said held truth, but the crew would not have followed me under those circumstances, so I denied all of it and he challenged me.”

John lays back on the porch, arms behind his head and thigh pressed against James’ hip. He’s calm while he recounts the tale, but his voice holds a weary edge, like it’s something he hasn’t spoken aloud to anyone else. “In the end, I slit his throat with intent to kill him. _There was so much blood_. It covered the deck and my hands. The men lay silent surrounding us at the rails, _and I remember how easy it was_.”

John sighs, taking a breath before continuing.

“I looked up at them, and I was a man possessed as I swore I’d rip out the throat of the next member of the crew to challenge my authority, spitting blood and rage and all the fractured bits of longing and frustration from losing you both. I remember thinking I had _become_ James Flint in that moment and it was such a—  _comfort_ knowing I could still be close to you if I wanted it badly enough.”

James cringes at that, teeth clenched together. This John Silver was a product of his own making, and James feels the weight of his creation pressing down on him. They’ve talked in whispers about the darkness of power in taking lives, in taking the _right_ life. And if he had been there, maybe he could have tempered some of it, helped John control it, and maybe protected him from drowning in it, just as John had done for him after he lost Miranda.   

“But Hands— that _fucker_ coughed and gagged and held the muscles and skin of his neck together until the surgeon stitched him up, with my permission, mind you, and he managed to somehow survive the fever and the recovery thereafter. I’m convinced the two of you have more lives and luck between you than all other earthly men combined.”

James looks back at him, raising an eyebrow. “And you still trust him to lead your men while you are here?”

“ _I_  don’t trust him at all, but he is formidable, and has single handedly strong-armed his way through more than one no-win occasion as my quarter master. The men respect him and he holds me accountable to them. I do not think it likely he will challenge me again, not unless I give him reason, of course.”

“Until he knows your plan to unbury the cache to buy Madi’s people from Hispaniola.”

“Yes. Therefore, I intent to avoid him knowing of the plan at all.”

+

They still argue when Madi will talk to John at all, but she lets him near, lets him help her with the garden, and he takes care around her, working quietly under her direction. He only complains quietly of the tediousness of gardening when Madi isn’t near enough to hear, but she isn’t delusional. She knows he’s doing it all for her.

James can’t hear what they’re saying, but the tone is different enough that he turns from a discussion with his foreman and pauses to watch them for a while.

John is wrist deep in the soil of their personal garden, working next to Madi on fertilizing a new bunch of tomato plants. She reaches up to swipe at the dirt smeared across his forehead, and he smiles at her and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

She’s allowed small touches recently, but nothing beyond that, not from John anyway.

They’re quiet for a while, each working on their separate corners of the seedling bed. Then Madi moves to stand, and John looks up at her from his knees and says something to her that brings silent tears to her eyes. She swipes them away with her palms and turns away from him, toward the house with her back to both men.

James nearly goes to them, but he stops when Madi reaches down to help John to his feet. She braces him against her and passes the crutch to him from where it was resting across a wheelbarrow. He takes it, but doesn’t let go of her once he’s stable.

She sinks into his arms and looks small for once, hiding her face in his shoulder. He kisses her forehead gently and James holds his breath, but Madi just looks up at him and presses a gentle kiss to his lips with hands on either side of his jaw.

There are words exchanged between them, but James cannot make them out. It’s better that way, he thinks. If it helps them move past the mistakes of the past, to have private moments like this one, then he will certainly welcome them.

They stand like that for a while, resting against one another with the backdrop of bright streaks of sunlight outlining their profiles, lighting them up from the outside in.

James feels overwhelmed with relief and smiles, too. It seems he was waiting a long time for this without realizing.


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um. If you were just in this for the porn, today happens to be your lucky day…

When the last of the tobacco is cut and moved to storage for curing, they finalize arrangements for leaving. On the night before they are to leave for Savannah, Samuel and his wife invite James, John, and Madi for an early dinner.

Samuel never asks questions, but he’s told that Madi’s family, whom they thought dead, are alive in Savannah and James will accompany her there. James imagines Samuel knows his relationship with Madi goes beyond master and slave, and while it makes James rage at putting it in those terms, it’s probably safer he assume it that than what is closer to the improbable reality. He and his wife have never treated her as less than James’ wife, anyway.

Samuel is always uneasy around John after their first encounter, but he understands John is the captain of a large merchant ship, is a friend of James, and has some investment in reuniting Madi with her family. Samuel keeps mostly to himself and values his own privacy, so James is fairly confident he will keep the more intimate details to himself, especially those he has likely interpreted without explicit explanation.

While they are in Savannah, Samuel will oversee their estate.

Lucas, Samuel’s small son, runs up the path to greet them when they arrive. Madi picks him up warmly, and she whispers into his ear and waits for his secret smile and a short nod. She hands him a small basket of vegetables picked from their garden, and he bounds up the path ahead of them, yelling for his mother.

Elizabeth, Samuel’s wife, greets them at the door to their small house and invites them inside.

It’s nearly too much. Sitting opposite Madi, with John at his side and Samuel and Elizabeth near, warm and welcoming. James hardly accepts that he could deserve any of this. There is so much to be thankful for in this room, and if he can just trust the verbose man sitting next to him to keep the more incriminating bits of their shared history to himself, then it might prove to be a very good night.

After the meal is finished, John smiles at James and says, “You remember the time we killed that shark together?”

That _fucking_ shark. Of course, James remembers the day the doldrums nearly took them all, the day he chose to stop fighting the fear of letting John under his skin, the day they became partners.

“How could I forget,” James deadpans, gulping a large swallow of ale.

He isn’t sure where John wants to take this story. John’s a good storyteller and an even better liar, so filling in the details that brand them as criminals against the crown, and later as lovers, will be easy for him if he chooses. It's just how close John’s willing to get to the truth that worries James.

“I would love to hear it,” Madi says fondly, not nervous at all about John’s proposed tale. She is softer this afternoon, content to be surrounded by friends without guard. Lucas sits on her lap as they listen, and she absently combs her fingers through his brown curls. Lucas’ eyes are heavy with sleep, though he refuses to close them, fearing he may miss something exciting.

John lights up at her confirmation and at the skeptical look James gives him, loving the attention and the chance to command the room with his presence.

While he tells the story, he often looks at James to interject and to confirm the most outlandish of his claims, especially when Elizabeth and Samuel do not believe him. There’s nothing left to do but smile and indulge him.

Towards the end of the story, John says, “And that's when I knew James and I would always find our way back to each other, no matter how our lives might diverge under the circumstances.”

And, while James ultimately controls himself, rolling his eyes is a near thing.

Under the table, John’s hand finds the inner muscle of James’ thigh, squeezing gently at first, and then with some force, as he finishes the story. It’s not that it’s unpleasant. John’s touch is something that always finds it way into James’ mind, and in the last few days they’ve been edging ever closer to something more intimate.

Yesterday, John had kissed him breathless beyond the treeline of the tobacco fields. James was so caught up in explaining the mechanics of holding and using the hunter’s bow, that he failed to notice John’s lack of attention for his words. Realizing too late, he had been shoved bodily into the nearest tree, and James had forgotten himself for half a minute, overcome by the intensity of John’s movements, and his carefully focused desire. And he’s definitely stronger now, because it had taken more force to get him to ease off than it would have a year ago.

John had let go of him, breathing, “I’m sorry. _Fuck_ , I swear I’ll wait. It’s just. The way you talk about hunting—”

“That turns you on?” James asked, because he just— that’s not what he expected.

“Like nothing else,” John had confirmed. “While you were explaining, you used that same low tone as you did when you were intent on taking a prize. I just missed it.”

“Oh,” James had said, lost for words.

But— James will not accept John’s recklessness with their privacy. Even something done without notice can have consequences beyond their control. He cannot risk those consequences. Not again.

Unaware, Elizabeth and Samuel praise the shark encounter and chatter on about their recent travels to Boston. James nods along, but he finds it increasingly difficult to concentrate on their words. After a few minutes, Elizabeth begins clearing the table of the finished food and plates, and Samuel takes a sleeping Lucas from Madi’s arms up the stairs to his bed.

Madi warns John with a raised eyebrow, sensing James’ discomfort, and James sneers just above a whisper, “If you wish to keep your hand attached to your wrist, kindly remove it from my thigh before I will be forced to—”

John removes his hand, but interrupts with, “Would you relax? _Christ._ No one in this house cares about your frustrating inability to let go of—”

“Both of you, hush,” Madi chides from the other side of the table. And then louder, so that Elizabeth will hear from the hearth. “John, would you help Elizabeth clear the plates? I'm sure she would enjoy the company.”

Without protest, John says, “I'd love to,” and makes a loud display of standing and shoving the crutch under his arm.

Once John is outside of earshot, Madi says, “He is seeking your affection and provoking you on purpose to achieve that end, but you must know this already.”

“He’s a fucking child,” James grumbles. “I will not deny him affection, the exception being when he insists on compromising our privacy.”

“James,” she says with a gentle air of unconcern. “No one needs protecting here.”

Miranda and Thomas had no problems with rumors either. None of it got to them because they were perfectly content, and James put trust in that happiness until the very end. They understood each other and that's what mattered, not what the neighbors thought, but experience, born from blood and loss, has taught James people are cruel and unforgiving and almost always unwilling to accept what is outside of their understanding. James will not compromise on that because he knows how devastating the consequences can be. He lives with those consequences everyday.

“He’ll ruin this. I know it,” James says, when he cannot put the rest into words.

Madi just smiles softly at him and reaches across the table to squeeze his hand. It's infuriating how calm she is about all of it when James was sure she would be on his side.

“No, I think we will not allow it a second time.”

+

It’s nearing twilight when they return to the house, and the air is pleasantly cool while the sun sets low against the backdrop of the rolling trees along the hills. The estate is calm and quiet, and the drying tobacco scents the air with an earthy musk. It mixes well with the sweetness of the night blooming jasmine planted near the back porch and the clean scent of the bed linens hung out to dry.

“I think we should discuss etiquette while we are traveling,” James says, because he cannot delay something so important, not when considering John’s deliberate attempt to push boundaries in the company of others already. What might he do while at the command of his own ship? Hands nearly killed him for their carelessness before.

“Fine,” John begins, throwing his jacket from his shoulders. He undoes the tail of his shirt, letting it hang freely, and sits in a chair to remove his boot. “Aboard the _Walrus_ , instead of shouting my unending love and devotion across the decks for all to hear, I shall ask you quietly to retreat to my cabin for a quick fuck. You see? I am willing to make small sacrifices.”

“Do not provoke me purposefully,” James warns, arms across his chest. “I am unwilling to risk the delicate balance we have created here. This will not be treated as a light matter.”

“John will behave himself when it matters,” Madi smiles fondly, before placing a careful kiss upon John’s temple. “The laundry needs pulling and folding. John, would you?”

“If you’re trying to be rid of me, just say so,” John says, taking Madi’s wrist to pull her closer. He kisses her upon the lips before standing.

“Go,” she says, tipping her head toward the back door. “I wish to speak with James without your flippant opinions clouding the air.”

From the doorway, John turns to smile back at them, bowing at the door. “This is twice you’ve sent me away today. I’m beginning to think there is conspiracy afoot.”

“Go,” Madi repeats.

“I won't allow him to compromise what we have managed to repair,” James says, leaning back against the table near the hearth.

“James,” Madi quietly urges, standing in front of him so she can wrap her arms around his shoulders. He pulls her close until there is no space between them, and she is strong and solid against him. “We do not know what will happen tomorrow. Let this be a night without worry.”

“You agree with him?” James asks, eyebrows raising.

“I wish he would not provoke you so, but I am tired of the distance between us all. Let us choose to be happy,” and she kisses the hollow of his throat. It’s comfortable, holding her to him like this. He allows himself a brief moment of quiet, and to his surprise, he is happier than he has felt in some time. Selfishly, he wishes the three of them could exist in this moment forever, without the constant pull of outside forces upsetting the balance they’ve found.

And John. John is infuriating at best, but James will not deny his weakness for John’s eternal pragmatism and willingness to start again, to trust that moving forward will make the difference. What happened in the past doesn’t matter to him as long as he can try to make the future better. They can all try. James knows John wants to make this work; they just express those same desires in different ways.

He can see John from the doorway, arms full of white linens as he maneuvers everything with surprising ease considering his handicap. James just wants him near right now. They can work out the rest later.

Arching back so she can look up at he as he speaks, James says, “If you’re ready for him, I am.”

Madi smiles. “I think we can both agree he is ready.”

“Pistols or not, he would have had me across this very table at our first meeting if I’d have let him.”

Madi just nods and smiles wider, hiding her face to let him know the idea has some appeal to her. “He has been patient in these last weeks.”

“He has,” James sighs. Surprisingly so.

“Be present with me,” she whispers after she presses a careful kiss to his lips. “There are no demons here to choke the happiness from us. Not tonight.”

+

John is cautious when he hovers at the door, and they stare at each other for long moments before James cannot take the slamming of his heart against his ribs a moment longer.

“ _Christ_ , would you come here?” because John’s hesitation makes it that much worse to suffer. He should know already that he’s welcome, and James wants this. He _always_ wants this.

John approaches slowly and stops short of where James is sitting on the bed. There is still too much distance between them.

“Sit,” he commands gruffly, and John does, easing the crutch to the floor.

James slides to his knees, bare feet against the cool wooden planks underneath. Following with his eyes, John doesn’t speak for once, just observes and waits, and that is— disquieting.

James keeps eye contact as he unbuckles his own belt and pulls his shirt free from his trousers. Then his shirt is up and over his head, and that gets John’s attention. Reaching out, he traces fingers across James’ cheek and down the planes of his chest, a slow trail of warmth in all the right places. John moves lower to dip below the waistband of his trousers, knuckles brushing against skin, and tugs him forward.

When James touches his knee, John opens easily and James settles between his thighs. They fit together like this, and James remembers how good it can be.

Taking hold of his hips, James pulls him to the edge of the bed so that he has a better angle to work from.

“I missed this,” John cups his hand around James’ jaw.

“Did you?” James asks, turning his head to softly bite at John’s palm while freeing John’s swollen cock at the same time. The warm weight of it is familiar and welcoming. He licks his hand to ease the way, deliberately moving his fist with less pressure than John likes.

There’s just something James needs to know before this goes any further. “How many whores did you let touch you this year?”

“ _Jesus_ , I thought you were dead,” John protests, taking hold of James’ wrist to show he isn’t satisfied with the grip, hips pulsing upward with need. “Why would you ask me that?”

Because every painful detail _matters_. James needs to know it all, absorb the pleasant moments and the unforgivable moments just the same until he has everything necessary to connect the man John was with the one he has begging for him right now.

“How many?” James grits out when it’s clear John intends to withhold the number without further prompting. For emphasis, James scrapes his teeth along the edge of John’s index and middle finger.

“Three,” John finally shudders.

James waits, keeping eye contact. He twists his wrist in a way that makes John squirm and reach for him, hand pulling at his ear to encourage James to apply more pressure. It’s all muscle memory, James thinks, knowing how to perfectly pull honest responses from John’s body and from his lips.

“Two in Port Royal and one in Santo Domingo,” John adds, breathless already. “I thought I would never see you again,” he confesses softly, like he needs James to believe he wouldn’t have done it otherwise.

James runs his thumb over the head of John’s cock, spreading spit and precome across the shiny skin. He pushes the shirt up to John’s chest so he can see the muscles of his stomach flex with restraint. John swears and throws the shirt up and over his head leaving his flushed neck and chest visible, body barely contained. The black outlines of the tattoo contrast with the bronze of his skin in the shadowed room.

“Did you think of me?” because he needs to know that, too, maybe just as much. “Of Madi?”

“Always,” John breathes, and James is sure it’s the truth.

Satisfied, James takes John down his throat smoothly. It’s been a while, but this isn’t the kind of skill that takes time to relearn, especially not when John is responding so outwardly, encouraging James to keep going. John threads his fingers through James’ hair, and that's different. His hair was always short when he'd done this before. It's nice until John tries to force him to go deeper, just once, probably just to see the reaction he’ll receive. James gently scrapes his teeth across the underside of his cock in warning, and John hisses in discomfort. Of course, he doesn't do it again.

James pulls back to breathe, not caring about the spit trailing freely. His mouth feels swollen and his jaw aches with the stretch. _Fuck_ , he missed that, too.

Finally, words drip from John’s mouth like an unraveling confession at the last hour, repentant verses from a starved man. “ _James,”_ he draws out. _“_ Everything else became a way to fill the time—  _endless fucking time_ to feel the significance of what I’d done and what I wasn’t able to repair. It all changed in a _second_ , and I was so fucking sure then, but nothing is ever as good as this. _You and her and— this_. I was so convinced I’d never—”

But James doesn’t let him continue, because he’s sure John could go on forever, painting his words with regret and longing until James would beg him to stop, so he concentrates on keeping John on the edge, listening and feeling him tense up, before pulling back again. Over and over. It’s enough to keep the confessions from bubbling over, spilling from his lips, and that is a true blessing.

Neither of them will last long, not when there’s so much time lost between them.

There’s a hand at James’ shoulder, kneading with care. He reaches back to thread his fingers with Madi’s, gently leading her closer, and he pulls off, sitting back on his heels to catch his breath. With their hands still threaded, James kisses Madi slowly, swollen lips to eager ones.

“I was watching from the door,” she confesses against his mouth. “Remembering when the two of you touched each other for the first time.”

“This is different,” James whispers back. _This isn’t discovery; this is coming home,_ he thinks. He curls his fingers around her neck, the pulse thrumming underneath, and nuzzles into her cheek as she reaches for the ties at his trousers.

James stands so she can pull them down and off, and she slips a tiny pot of oil into his free hand, just as she did the first time. She kneels on the bed where John’s waiting for her and leans forward for a slow and deliberate kiss, a precious image James locks away for safekeeping. John pulls at the fabric of her dress until Madi begins removing her corset, but the process is slow with John’s hands getting in the way from impatience. James eases John’s trousers down and off, too.

James use the oil to coat his cock, fisting himself into an easy rhythm. He’s already hard, but can’t help touching himself while he watches them. Before Madi can remove her skirts, John has his fingers inside her, disappearing among the folds of fabric, and she is curling her toes and pushing the skirts up until her knees are far apart. She gets close to John’s ear and whispers to him, too, grinning into the words. He listens intently, then he smiles up at James. Edging to the end of the bed once again, he roughly pulls James to him by the hips.

“I know you miss fucking me,” John teases, taking hold of James’ cock without finesse. He licks at the tip with the flat of his tongue, looking up in a way that is willfully provocative, before easing backward on the bed. There’s nothing that could stop him from following, from covering John with every part of his body, finally skin to skin with John’s knees drawn up high, caging his torso so tightly between his thighs.

His hands are already slick with the oil, so he eases his fingers into John, one at a time. James works him open steadily while John threads his hands through James’ hair and bites at his lips, stealing open-mouthed kisses that James does his best to keep from becoming frantic, because John is being less than helpful.

John tastes of the sea, salt and sun drenched palms and ocean breeze. His kiss is freedom from society’s stifling confinement. When John grips his biceps, James can feel the unpolished woodgrain of the deck rails and the rope burn beneath his hands. There’s bittersweet longing to it all, a siren’s call to return to the sea with every touch of his tongue. _Come back to me. Remember what we were, not what we became._ James wonders if he tastes of cured tobacco leaves, freshly tilled earth, and the civilization he once refused to bow to, and he wonders if that means anything at all to John.

“You miss it too,” James says, as he eases into John, feeling him consciously relax to compensate for the pressure of James’ cock.

“Everyday,” John confirms.

These are practiced movements and words he’s heard a thousand times, all of them, like coming home to a forgotten room filled with memories and rediscovered opportunities. John is his, and Madi is his, and they fit together like this. This private give and take is always the easy part.

Fully undressed now, Madi fits herself to John’s side and rubs her toes along James’ calf in an incredibly distracting way, so he bends her toward him and kisses the arch of her foot. John reaches down to finger her, and she bites his ear, melting into him.

Where John is his foil, his balance, she is his constant, his north star and safe harbor. A mirror reflecting upon his own soul.

“How fortunate we are,” Madi confesses. “To find—”

And James waits for her to say more, but the words remain unsaid, folded into a breathless moan. That’s fine. He understands anyway.

Bored of the position far sooner than James would normally allow, John eases himself free and turns onto his hands and knees. James is still hard, but he’s so close now that he doesn’t dare touch himself. Watching John settle between Madi’s legs, he holds her thighs open and kisses her breasts before trailing lower, across her ribs and the soft indent of her belly, down to her center. She sighs softly and stretches, arching her hips when she approves of the precise curl of his tongue.

After a moment, John is restless again. “Come on. You can get deeper this way. I want it,” he persuades, looking back at James, knees apart and back bowed into an obscene arc. His tone is almost enough to bring James off without touch, resolute and commanding, but he manages to somehow hold off until he’s seated in John again, bottoming out with a resonant growl pulled from somewhere deep down.

How John manages to always be at the center of it all, time after time, James hardly knows.

It takes three or four thrusts, each punctuated by John’s loud guttural noises, before James bites at the back of John’s neck and comes hard with one hand wrapped firmly around the tattoo at John’s shoulder, and the other around Madi’s ankle, both crushing enough to feel the bone beneath.

“God, _yes_ ,” John cries out, always dissatisfied when James prefers to come without a word.

James collapses to Madi’s side and she reaches for him immediately, fingers slip-sliding over the sweat covering his arms. He kisses her deeply, feeling her body tremble against him. She’s close; James can feel it building in her, a rolling rumble, like distant thunder breaking in the calm of a storm.

It breaks soon enough, and she’s moaning across short breaths. Bending forward, James licks at the beads of sweat gathering between her breasts, and she tugs him up by his ear until their mouths join again. Tremors still flutter through her when John refuses to let up, and James sucks at her bottom lip until she’s thoroughly finished and nudging John’s head away.

After, John smiles down at both of them breathing hard. He resembles a victorious god in this moment, the blue of his eyes clear with intent, forged in battle hardened waters, their Odysseus, absent for far too long, and so purposeful in making up for everything lost between them.

“I cannot believe I’m the last,” he says, genuinely surprised, as he slicks the sweat-soaked curls back from his forehead, mouth shining and chest and cheeks flushed. He looks incredibly pleased with himself as he fists his own cock, still swollen and ready for release.

“Come here,” James beckons, reaching for him blindly because he can’t force himself to do more and because John doesn’t need his ego to inflate more than it already has. He hauls John forward so he can coat John’s cock with the oil left on his hands.

Once he’s seated low on James’ hips, he pushes his thumb into the scar at John’s thigh, holding the anger down low in his stomach, refusing to let it ruin the euphoria blanketing them in satisfying warmth. Madi threads her fingers with his and the rest drifts away as they watch John throughly come apart above them, radiant with their joint attention focused solely on him.


	9. IX

Israel Hands is skeptical, to say the least. When they board the _Walrus_ , he eyes the three of them with focused contempt.

“It’s been awhile, Mr. Hands.” Madi is the first to greet him, standing tall and proud and unwilling to allow his intimidation to frighten her.

“Princess,” Hands greets, tipping his head politely. “I was glad to hear you were still in the land of the living.”

Taking a few steps closer, James stands shoulder to shoulder with her, close enough to remind Hands exactly where he stood before and where he still stands.

“James,” he greets, smiling though his fist is poised over the head of the axe at his belt. “Welcome back aboard. Do you like what we’ve done with her in your absence?” and he gestures toward the quarter deck and crew of the _Walrus_.

There’s a murmur spreading through the crew as they watch the new arrivals. The majority are new faces, but it’s clear they are aware of who has just boarded, and probably of James Flint’s legacy as former captain of this ship. Also, James would bet at least a few of them are aware of the treacherous circumstances surrounding Captain Long John Silver’s ascension, too.

Though it’s built of the fractured remains, it is clear this is not James’ ship anymore.

John pushes through the middle to stand between them and Hands, boot and crutch heavy on the deck to announce his arrival. He keeps eye contact with Hands while he commands, “Mr. Umber, get us underway. Set a course for Savannah. We’ll swing her out wide to avoid Charles Town and ride the trade winds back west along the coast.” John’s smart enough to sense the tension building almost immediately so he’ll want to get them moving as soon as possible.

There’s barely any movement from the crew, still watching the new arrivals with curiosity.

“This ship won’t sail itself, men! Get _the fuck_ to work,” John shouts with confidence. “Or I’ll be forced to leave the whole lot of you to fend for yourselves amongst the civilized!” His irritation at their lack of focus is palpable and they must take it as a serious threat because, with much commotion, they finally begin the work needed to raise anchor and leave Williamsburg harbor.

This won’t be easy, and James is certain John understands that now.

+

Maybe it’s this ship that turns a man into something immortal, something larger and more powerful than the parts comprising the whole. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

Captain Long John Silver is truly a sight to behold. His presence is felt everywhere, and in whispers, the men speak of his bravery, his ruthlessness, and his ability to defy death at will. These men believe in Long John Silver, the man and the mythos. It was something that took the better part of a decade for James to achieve with Flint, but perhaps it isn’t so surprising that John would accomplish it in a fraction of the time.

When James allowed himself moments to contemplate John’s captainship, James always believed his success would depend more on his charisma, his quick wit, and his empathic ability to appeal to emotion, all qualities John has never lacked in. His success would never hinge on his experience as a military tactician or as a navigator as Flint’s had. It appears he has accomplished exactly the leadership style James had predicted.  

“Don’t do that,” John grumbles as he approaches James at the rail, long coat billowing past him in the wind. His shoulders seem broader in the shadows, hair wilder, eyes a deeper shade of blue.

It’s their first night aboard, and James has kept his opinions closely guarded, barely speaking to John as the day wore on.  Even now, he’s standing away from the crew but observing intently.

It’s clear this night; the moon is high and the stars are brightly lit overhead. They’re moving at a steady pace with the wind in their favor, and the helmsman and sailing master are fairly competent without specific direction.

“It might help me to stop what I’m doing if I understood what was upsetting you about it,” James says evenly, leaning back against the rail, chin between his finger and thumb in contemplation. He’s careful to barely acknowledge John’s presence at all.

“Oh, _fuck off_ ,” John accuses quietly.

He turns to peer out at the blackened sea, so his words are as close to James’ ear as he can manage without heads turning in their direction. “I know you’re calculating every misstep I make with my crew, scrutinizing every bit of inexperience that shines through. While you may not be outward with your judgement, it is easy for me to see it is there, and in turn, you are upsetting the balance I’ve worked hard to achieve with these men.”

James does his best to keep the smile threatening at bay. In actuality, he was thinking that John was doing remarkably well, but he’ll save his praise for a more private moment. It’s also not everything weighing on his mind, of course.

James says, “You have dangerously underestimated me if you think my thoughts rest solely on your competency as captain.”

“Do not patronize me,” John protests. “Not _you._ I cannot bear it, not while we are both aboard this ship once more.” And then he sighs. “As an aside, I know you must be thoroughly enjoying this.”

A smile does break through then, but James is careful to control it. He’ll admit that watching John squirm for his approval is amusing and oddly satisfying. He did not predict the extent to which it would matter to John before they set sail.

James won’t deny that John’s inexperience shows, but he imagines it would take someone with considerable experience to even notice. There are probably two people aboard this ship that would qualify under that brand, himself included, and John has survived and currently outranks them both.

“You were right about Hands,” James says.

“Yeah?” John says, turning to squint at Hands stalking the deck, keeping the men on night shift busy even at this hour. James has not seen him at leisure once. He appears in constant motion, resembling a restless lion, tracking his crew’s movements and James himself, with every turn about the decks.

“He keeps a tight reign on the crew,” James begins. “While that seems to work with these men in particular, nearly all of them quite young and without experience, it might only take one of them breaking rank to upset the balance.”

“Yes, I am painfully aware of that.”

James nods, continuing, “He will not challenge you—”

“Except on matters concerning the cache and who benefits from it,” John cuts in. “Yes, that is not new information either, but thank you.”

James says, “I was under the impression my observations were valuable to you.”

John frowns at him. “Yes, I have waited the better part of this day for your _observations_.”

After waiting in silence, John raises his eyebrows when James is not immediately forthcoming. “I have never known you to waste words so you must be mentioning details I already know for a reason.” He gestures for James to continue. “Just say what you intend to say.”

James lets the words settle on his tongue first. Without more information about John’s current relationship with Hands, his reaction could go in either direction.

“You will need to remove him before securing the cache. That is the only way to be sure _he_ will not upset the balance you’ve created here. He has influence over these men, _too much_ as far as I can see. You’ll need this ship and this crew if you’re to succeed beyond _Skeleton Island_. Hands is dangerous and— entirely expendable.”

It’s likely Hands was instrumental to the establishment and training of this current crew. John would have been too inexperienced, and without confidence while affected by Madi’s death, to construct this kind of order so quickly. But now, James believes Hands is an accessory, and he believes Hands knows this, too. Thus he feels threatened by James’ appearance and has and will continue to use intimidation to keep James in his place.

“ _Jesus_ ,” John says, but James remains unconvinced the idea had never crossed his mind. It’s plain from his reaction that this is not new information either, and his surprise is merely a reaction to having what he suspected confirmed. “I’d like to think your insistence on removing him is fueled by revenge for what he’s done to you, to Madi, _to me even_ , but I’m not certain that is the case.”

It’s not. James would have the same opinion whether it involved the safety of loved ones or not. “You have my word this is all purely strategic, but—” James stops, turning John’s words over in his mind. “Are you suggesting my judgement is emotionally compromised by you?”

John smiles softly, expression open and genuine. He shifts so he can lean fully against the rail, elbows bracing himself so he’s standing much too close. He’s comfortable here, in this role, and with James at his side while the crew surrounds them.

Not looking at James, he says, “After everything, I should _fucking_ hope you’re compromised.”

“And your judgement is sound?” James whispers, barely hearing the words himself.

John laughs, clear and bright, eyes moving skyward. “I cannot remember a time when my judgement _wasn’t_ compromised by the two of you. Now, in this moment and after this last month together, it is shattered beyond repair.”

+

“He is different here. Amongst these men, different than he was amongst your men,” Madi says the next morning. “Different than how he is with us.”

She turns her face into the wind and closes her eyes. The sunlight peeking over the horizon warms James’ skin and gives hers a gentle glow. The grey and black clouds of a quiet storm brewing to the northeast will not cross their path this day.

“And so are you,” James offers, gripping the railing just to feel the wood grain beneath his fist.

“I have always enjoyed being at sea.” Her eyes remain closed. “You know this.”

James nods. It goes beyond that, though. She has found her peace somehow. She is centered and grounded and as confident as he remembers her when they met.

He says, “I have seen the sea and this life change men. John is determined, but he is not immune to its allure.”

John is exceptional at playing his part. Even now, as Madi and James stand apart from the leadership team at the quarter deck, discussing the day’s distance and depth readings, plotting their course using nautical charts with the sailing master, John commands attention. He appears in control, but James can hardly take credit for that. In fact, watching him makes James wish he had done more to pass on his knowledge and experience, his failures and fortunes, because that kind of mentoring can certainly mean the difference between life and death as any captain, let alone one responsible for traitors and thieves.

Hands stands near to John, arms crossed at his chest, silently taking direction without comment. How the men perceive John and how Madi and James know him are two separate entities now, and James will admit compartmentalizing those separate parts of himself comes more naturally for John than it ever did for him.

Madi smiles over at him, head cocked to the side in puzzlement. “Are _you_ immune?”

While the two worlds John has constructed for himself collide, the duality within him will be tested, and James knows intimately what that is like. When he was reeling after Miranda’s death, John managed to pull him back from drowning in it. When he is challenged, it’s hard to say if John will need or even accept the same support offered.

“It has changed me, yes,” James sighs, “but I do not think it will consume me as it once did. My days as captain were filled with darkness and grief, especially in the beginning. I do not need those parts of my life to feel fulfilled now.”

Madi doesn’t say anything, just smiles and turns her gaze back to the endless blue of the sea racing out toward the horizon.

+

At midday, Hands shoves a knife, tip first, into the wood of the mess hall table where James sits.

The stab of metal splintering wood makes his jaw twitch, but he’s careful not to react otherwise. Madi, who’s sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, raises her eyes in defiance, but she barely flinches either.

“How does it feel to lick the boots of the man who cast you aside?” Hands bellows, deliberately loud and imposing. The crew members surrounding them stop their meal-time conversations to stare. “Or maybe you _enjoy_ taking it from behind,” he chuckles, a heavy and belittling sound.

A few of the crew quietly laugh, but the ones nearest keep their opinions to themselves, lest they be caught in the crossfire from two very dangerous men in a confined space.

James is prepared to ignore his goading because it’s only a petty show of dominance designed to provoke James into a confrontation. And normally, James would itch for a fight, especially in a place so evocative of his past life at sea, and _especially_ with Hands, but here, James finds he has nothing at all to prove to this man towering over them.

It’s Madi who speaks up, angry on his behalf. “And I would ask you, how does it feel to be cast aside with never an option to repair what was lost?” She is almost certainly referring to Hands’ relationship with Edward ‘Blackbeard’ Teach, and James does flinch at that. Those are old wounds, ones Hands surely prefers to bury deep where he can forget others know anything of his past.

As correctly predicted, the resentment is sudden. Hands grunts in irritation, bares his teeth, and pulls the knife from the table in one great movement.

Madi stands, a sneer at her mouth and anger running hot under her skin. It appears to matter little to her that Hands is twice her size and wielding a weapon he is skilled in using.

“I see you also let the captain’s woman fight battles for you now, too,” Hands jibes.

James stands then, but not because the comment gets under his skin. Madi is formidable in her own right, but because he can see she’s ready to tear into him, and James will protect her with his last breath.

“Enough!” comes John’s booming voice from the ladder connecting to the upper decks, and all heads turn in his direction.

There is silence as he descends slowly, taking care on each step, not because he’s slow with the crutch, but because it allows him time to glare menacingly at anyone who has the courage to meet his eyes. The shadows hollowing his features and the sunlight behind him from above only add to the exaggerated effect.

Hands lets the knife fall to the table and respectfully stands at attention, while Madi breathes in audibly, and James can feel the fear coursing through her as she leans into him just a little closer. Though he knows they’re not in any immediate danger, not anymore, even James can feel the foreboding prickle at the back of his neck.

James hardly knows this version of John Silver, someone he’s only seen glimpses of before. This is the man who bashed Dufresne’s skull into the dusty floor, not the one who grabbed James’ thigh at dinner telling tales of shark hunting to the neighbors a few days ago, and certainly not the man who sucked his cock this morning and melted into him, exhausted and satisfied after coming against James’ stomach, begging for a moment’s rest while Madi pressed up close and whispered about all the ways she would have him.

This version of John Silver, the one before them, could persuade men to replace mountains with desert so he might have a better view of the heavens.

When John speaks, the room is silent and all listen intently. A few faces appear from the deck, listening in from above, too. “Our objective in bringing Madi to Savannah has been made explicitly clear to you, Mr. Hands, has it not?”

“Aye,” Hands manages, a quiver in his voice even as he stands tall.

John picks up the knife from the table, scraping the edge against the woodgrain. He glances at James, and a brief flicker of concern flashes there, before he once again becomes the stranger who descended the stairs moments ago.

John stares in fury at Israel Hands, gripping the knife with expressive purpose. “So I must ask you how threatening our guests allows us to complete that objective?”

When Hands says nothing, John brings the knife to rest against his neck, aligned with the puckered scar, and Hands turns his head, shying away from the pressure of the blade. Sweat dots his brow, and he is irate but fearful.

Close to Hand’s ear, John hisses, “If you are not here to fulfill this part of _our_ agreement between Mr. Flint and the crew, then you must not believe recovering the cache is worthwhile either?”

“Sir,” Hands concedes. “I fully support its recovery.”

With an even expression, John pulls the knife away with a sudden flick of his wrist and the crew all quietly gasp. The movement is so quick and close to the skin it’s hard to track it. With clinched teeth, Hands brings his fingers to his neck, breathing hard. Those who are standing take a step back while James remains frozen, staring intently, because he’s as captivated as the rest of them. Only John knows if the blade cut through flesh or not.

John turns away before Hands removes his palm to reveal no traces of blood. John did not cut him open, not this time.

The crew all stand in silence, waiting.

“The next time will be your last,” John threatens to no one in particular. His back is to them as he ascends the steps, just as slowly as the time before.

+

James follows shortly after, once he’s sure Madi is safe and the situation is properly diffused.

“You must contain yourself,” James soothes, ascending the steps of the quarterdeck to find John pacing with restless resentment. There are only one or two crew members within earshot. The rest look as though they have intentionally put space between themselves and the captain.

“I _will_ kill him,” John says with conviction, hands shaking, letting the anger settle into him like a raging fire. “Now, if it is time. Even if it isn’t. _I don’t care._ ” He turns away, and James almost reaches for him, would have if they weren’t near enough for others to see.

It’s startling to see the reflection of his past self in John. _This_ is the legacy of Captain Flint in a surge of vivid shards.

At the starboard rails, they stand huddled together in a way James hopes will warn others to not come near. James bows his head and speaks softly. “When it is time, you will do it. We will all watch him bleed for this and everything else. I am here. Madi is here. Right now, you have to let the anger pass, because it does not define you.” And James wishes someone might have convinced him of this while the world was igniting behind his own eyes. Miranda tried, _oh how she tried_ , but James was not yet ready to see it, and he regrets that most of all.

John closes his eyes, breathing through James’ words. Their hips and shoulders are touching, and James allows it for these moments. If that’s what John needs, then James will give it freely.

“I will make this right,” John whispers, voice breaking under the unbearable weight of his words.

James touches the inside of John’s wrist and presses into his thrumming pulse for just a moment. “I know you will try.”

+

“You were aware of his plan to return to _Skeleton Island_ for the cache,” Madi states. She doesn’t bother framing it as a question.

James closes the heavy door to the captain’s quarters behind him. Madi is sitting at the window, a book open in her hands. It’s one he doesn’t recognize. The spine is black with faded gold lettering, so worn James cannot make out the title. John must have kept it from a prize, and the thought of him keeping books he would likely never read is strangely intimate.

“Yes,” he answers, going to her cautiously. He and John had agreed to avoid telling her while the plan was still unformed. They had yet to work out how best to explain it to her.

Madi closes the book with a definitive slam. She shakes her head and stares out to sea. “And what do the two of you have planned after its recovery? I imagine it has nothing to do with handing out vast riches to the men aboard this ship.”

Suddenly, James is struck by how tired he is, and so he eases himself to the floor at her feet. It seems he doesn’t have the stamina for sea life anymore.

John’s domain looks nothing like the captain’s quarters aboard Flint’s _Walrus_ , different furniture, different charts and tools, but it feels similar somehow. Maybe John managed it purposefully, maybe not.

“The crew will receive a small percentage, but the majority will be used for a different purpose.”

Madi edges forward and rests her bare leg against James’ arm. He can’t see her expression, but he imagines her mouth is a hard line and her eyes are scornful. James trails fingers along her calf upward to the underside of one knee, and he takes it as a good sign that she doesn’t immediately push him away. He rests his neck against the seat near Madi’s hip. She smells nice, he thinks absently.

He wishes John would come and take rest with them. After a while he will come, after he’s sure Hands is under control and the crew are firmly aware of which of them is captain. When the night watch settles in, he promised he would come.

“The two of you will not treat me as an outsider to this _plan_ , James. I should not need to demand further explanation from you.”

“I will tell you,” James begins, closing his eyes and rubbing his cheek into her thigh. “but I suspect you will not approve of it.”

She leans forward to thread her fingers back through James’ unwashed hair, and she presses a kiss just above his ear.

“Maybe it’s best if you tell me quickly then, so I am not left to speculate on the likelihood of this plan involving something absurdly dangerous, something you’ve somehow managed to talk each other into _despite_ this danger.”

“You are not wrong,” James smiles, feeling the touch of her fingers across his hair, massaging his scalp gently.

She repositions herself so James is resting between her thighs, and her skirt is drawn up past her knees. Then she’s tipping his head back and threading the strands of his hair into a single complex braid, starting at the crown. His hair is long enough to secure it at his neck now with a cord. It’s a silly thing, but he finds it soothing all the same. This will be what he misses as he foolishly contemplates following John into his absurdly dangerous plan.

“John wants to use the cache to buy freedom for your people enslaved in Hispaniola. He’s convinced this is the way to set things right.”

Madi is silent for a while, only sighing heavily in reaction. James knows she is processing the idea, thinking it through before she lets him know her opinions. He can predict what she will say, but is still curious how she perceives its degree of merit and urgency.

“It is madness, James,” Madi says. “You must know this. There are too many factors to control, and I have grown weary of these senseless acts of atonement for no possible gain. I am relieved to have the two of you and those members of my family awaiting us in Savannah, but if I were to lose you again. I don’t know.” The rest is just a whisper. “ _I just don’t know_.”

She seems almost embarrassed to say the words to him, maybe because she was so convinced the war mattered more than them, than her own life, after John was gone from their lives and the war with him, but— one’s priorities _can_ change. Their dreams and aspirations and desires can change, too. James would never fault her for that because his have changed also. He lost Thomas a long time ago, and maybe it’s finally time to stop chasing after phantoms, seeking revenge from smoke and dust where he will never find satisfaction.

“If you follow him into it,” she tries again, “I fear you will both succumb to the demons that keep you from your own happiness. While I may never fully forgive him for what he did, I _have_ accepted what was lost.”

She unties a cord from her own braids and secures it around the gathered ends of James’ hair. He reaches back to skip his fingertips along her careful work. Satisfied, he turns to face her, curious to see her expression. While there are no tears presently, the evidence is there. She looks as tired as he feels, and he’s not sure what he should say. Though she is probably right, James feels neither of them will convince John of the plan’s futility. Is it better to follow him and boost the chances of his success, or would it just compound the tragedy that would almost certainly follow?

She frames his face with her hands and he meets her halfway for a reassuring kiss.

Her eyes are shining with unshed tears. “His need to make this right will be his end, and I fear you have already decided to chase him into it.”


	10. X

When James wakes, it’s to John leaning over him to kiss Madi’s cheek on the narrow bed, and Madi whispering, “Don’t wake him.”

“He’s already awake,” John says just as softly, voice a low rumble while it’s so close. The tattoo stretching across his bicep is the first thing James sees when he opens his eyes just a little. He presses his forehead against John’s arm, and John is warm and solid against him.

“Come to bed,” James growls, half muffled into John’s forearm. John hums low and leans down to bite at James’ ear. His beard and hair falling around them tickles, and he seems to have calmed his mind and is closer to the John they knew in Virginia. James wants to fold this John into them and keep him near.

Then there comes a toe curling murmur against James’ ear. “It’s dawn, and I need you.”

James sighs and reaches up blindly. For his effort, he gets a careful kiss against his palm, teeth scraping over the ridges of his knuckles, and then— nothing.

James settles back against Madi and keeps his eyes closed. She shifts so she can drape an arm around his middle and tuck her nose into his neck. James grumbles, “It’s your damn ship now. I’m just a passenger, _and_ you haven’t slept.”

He has intentionally put space between himself and those navigation charts John is currently riffling through on the captain’s desk. The sea can’t drown him if he keeps it at arm's length, or so he tells himself.

“That’s _why_ I need you,” John clarifies. “We’re approaching Savannah. Estimates put us in the harbor at sunset, and the last time we were here, we didn’t exactly— make any friends. Admittedly, I was not in a state of mind to care much about harbor ferry procedure, militia inspections, and anchoring tariffs, so— well, you can imagine.”

James raises an eyebrow. “Why am I not surprised?” Just what they need, more bridges burned in the colonies, of which James is fully aware he has contributed, but it might have helped if John had warned him sooner about Savannah.

John ignores his griping. “So, we either negotiate anchoring at the harbor and hope they’ve conveniently forgotten those two militia guards Hands killed— and the payment we owe from the last time, or we find another bay that still allows us access to the city proper. Either choice could do with some advice since I trust my men less than I did yesterday, and— past experience says my lack of sleep will lead me toward the more reckless option.”

“And somehow, this has all become my responsibility,” James adds.

“Right,” John scoffs. “Tell me _exactly_ how much you _hate_ being part of this,” and his smile is all teeth.

Madi leans over and whispers, “Go,” knowing full well they’ll all benefit from James’ experience. James knows she would also prefer to keep close watch on John as well after the previous day. Madi kneads the muscles of his shoulder until he reluctantly pulls himself up.

“Nothing comes easy, does it?” he asks instead, blinking the sleep from his eyes and throwing a wrinkled shirt over his head he hopes is his own.

“Not in this life,” John says, still managing to look more awake than James feels.

After a significant show of stretching and grumbling while he slides on his boots, James follows John to the decks. And maybe he drags his feet a bit, and maybe he steals a kiss on the way, too.

+

As they’re approaching Savannah harbor, there’s enough nervous commotion to keep everyone busy.

The black is lowered and carefully hidden away, replaced with stolen English colors. Harbor officers are allowed to board, and the manifests are inspected for accuracy. The hardbound accounts of cargo and passengers and dates are falsified, of course, but James knows they’re properly formatted because he spent a few hours checking them today. It can be assumed from the amount of corrections needed that John has been running on good fortune and his quick tongue to keep this crew free from chains. Which is not to say James is surprised, just exasperated to think of it.

The importance of keeping proper false records on hand was something James learned the hard way early in his captaincy. After he began constructing them based on fractured bits of the prize manifests they forcibly acquired, it became something that saved them on more than one occasion. Now, John’s logs are both vague and specific enough to easily convince any harbor officials not looking for something particularly incriminating.

“Not every encounter need end in violence,” James had murmured when John began complaining of the fabricated manifest’s eventual tediousness.

“Those words just came from _your_ mouth,” John had pointed out, grinning. “Sometimes I am convinced I know nothing about you anymore.”

As they’re settling into negotiations with the officials responsible for collecting tariffs, James notices Hands’ absence on deck. For a man who has spent the better part of four days watching James’ every move, it is odd to not have him as a constant shadow, especially now as the crew are beginning to see James’ word as an extension of John’s.

Bending his head so the words will only be heard by John, James states, “You called for all hands.”

“Why?” John grimaces, giving the manifests back to his boatswain. He’s already looking around them to locate who might be missing.

Israel Hands is not above deck.

Madi is also missing.

+

James goes alone to locate them.

They can’t be far, and John is needed on deck to keep the crew focused on anchoring. There’s no need to alarm everyone yet, and while it took some convincing that turned to panicked hissing near the end, John had agreed.

It’s been maybe an hour since he’s seen Hands, and less than that since Madi was by his side, peering at Savannah harbor through John’s spyglass, emotions carefully guarded as the possibility of seeing her family drew nearer.

When James opens the door of the captain’s quarters, he’s not prepared for the scene before him.

Madi’s hands are bound, a cloth is tied to her mouth to prevent her shouts from escaping, and Hands is holding her from behind with an arm across her collar bones. There’s a sharp knife to her throat, the same knife John pressed to his throat yesterday.

“Well, this prevents me having to send for you,” Hands says by way of greeting. “The princess hasn’t exactly been— cooperative.”

While the fear and anger are mounting, clouding his judgement, James’ instincts say to charge toward them, and he does, but stops suddenly when Hands presses more firmly against her neck with the knife. Madi’s muffled noises show she is in pain, and James takes a step back, cringing while the panic sets in.

He does not doubt for a second Hands will kill her.

“You know what I want,” comes Hands’ sneer.

James sees a parchment open on John’s table with a wide map resembling _Skeleton Island_ upon it. There’s a quill waiting for James to spill the secrets of the island upon its surface.

It will come down to the cache for her life.

James meets Hands’ eyes, directing all the fury and fire he feels rushing forward in Hand’s direction. “If I were to give you the location of the cache, what will keep me from giving you false information?”

“I _will_ kill her,” Hands states evenly, punctuating his words with more pressure at Madi’s neck. Madi stretches her neck back and is breathing heavily. There is a small trail of blood already. While he’s broken skin, the cut isn’t deep enough to be life threatening, not yet. Flint wills her not to struggle.

“If I give you time to think your way out if this, I’ve lost already. _The map_ ,” Hands booms.

James tries his luck once more, doing his best to gauge the situation through the well of emotions that threaten to swallow him whole. “You kill her, and you’ll never get to the cache anyway. There is a ship full of men here that would kill _you_ if the captain gave the order. And _he will_ most certainly give that order if you do.”

Hands laughs, dismissing James’ intimidation. It’s a cruel sound that triggers John’s devastated face flashing before him when they thought Madi was dead the first time. He cannot witness it again. _He cannot._

Hands counters, “There is _a ship full of men_ here who are expecting the cache as their reward. When they hear of your _alternative plan_ , her life will mean nothing to them. And the captain’s word will mean less than that. Mutiny will follow, and _we will have our payment_.”

“There is no alternative plan,” James lies, trying his best to keep his voice even, though he can feel it breaking at the edges. Madi notices because she tries to shout _no_ , though hardly any sound comes from her. “The Captain has given Madi the means to reunite with her family in exchange for my help in recovering the cache.”

“Even if what you say were true, I will have no problem convincing those men the three of you are part of a conspiracy to keep the cache for yourselves. In addition to the map, if you agree to abandon the captain at Savannah and sail with us to the island to retrieve the cache, she will live. _They will both live._ ”

Madi and John’s lives matter more to him than the cache does, and now, James feels himself stepping toward the map and gripping the pen without further thought. If this is what he must do to keep Hands from pressing the knife into Madi’s neck, then he will do it. They’ve all lived through the other side of it, and John’s plan to retrieve the Maroons from Hispaniola means nothing now if Madi does not survive to see it happen.

“Untie her,” James commands, pen poised over the map, feeling bold while he’s wielding all of the power to give Hands what he wants. “I will do as you say. Untie her!”

Hands hesitates, but uses the knife to cut her free. It is clear in his blind greed he has underestimated her.

What happens next is so quick, James hardly processes it before it’s over. Madi somehow maneuvers in a way that knocks the knife free from Hands’ grip, but he grabs her by the wrist and throws her to the floor with a growl while she cries out in pain.  James drops the pen, and uses Hands’ surprise to his advantage as he cracks his fist across Hands’ jaw hard enough to send him stumbling backward from the force of it. The blow should have knocked him out, but Hands spits blood and looks at them both with fury in his eyes.

“Get behind me,” James shouts at Madi, adrenaline rushing through him as he keeps Hands within his sight. Madi removes the gag and crawls to him, picking up the knife on the ground as she moves. She is careful to conceal it in her skirt so Hands does not see it.

“Now we can finish what we started back on that Island,” Hands threatens, taking the axe from his belt with confidence. James remembers the scar at John’s thigh and sees red.

Hands lunges for him, and James unsheathes his sword and he counters the axe, once, twice, but Hands is strong, stronger than James, and without focus or room to maneuver, James miscalculates and is thrown backward, tripping over the captain's desk. The axe grazes his bicep, slicing through muscle with bright searing pain.

Grabbing at his own arm, James stumbles back against the bookshelf, blood hot and sticky between his fingers. The pain of it makes his head fuzzy and breath uneven.

When he can focus again, he hears a choked sound and the bubbling of blood from across the room. Madi is twisting the knife deep, puncturing Hands’ stomach, all the rage and passion spilling over until she is consumed by it. The knife is still deep as the blood covers her hands and dribbles out onto her skirts.

Hands laughs and coughs a sickening fluid-filled sound. He stumbles to his knees and the axe falls from his grip. He’s struggling to breathe now and his vision appears unfocused from the pain.

Madi stands, knife still in her grip. James watches her, tearing the sleeve form his own shirt to make a simple tourniquet. He needs to stop the blood leaking from his own bicep. It won’t kill him, at least not quickly, but he’s already feeling light headed from it. Trying to get to her, James stumbles to stand, leaning heavily against the captain’s desk.

“Madi, don’t,” James tries, out of breath.

She’s poised over Hands now as he looks up at her, almost reverently.

“Let me,” James offers a final time, but James isn’t sure he can, and then it occurs to him the two other people in this room have already accepted what is to happen here, and James is the last to cling to a different ending.

Ignoring him, Madi takes the blade to Hands’ throat in a slow pull across flesh and muscle. Her movements are intentional and no fear clouds her judgement. It shouldn’t have been her. This is what James should have protected her from. _It should have been me._  He didn’t want this. John certainly didn’t want this. James looks down, blinking back reality and feeling the leaden weight of guilt sinking low into the pit of his stomach.

In that moment, the door swings open and John yells, “ _Fuck_ ,” just as the blood is spilling freely from Hands’ neck and life is fading from his body.  John quickly slams the door behind him and says, “ _Fuck_ ,” again, but it’s softer the second time. As Hands slumps to the floor, Madi lets the knife fall, and she kneels down when the weight of her legs is too much to bear.

Madi stares down at her hands, palms covered in red. “He will not take you from me. Not a second time,” Madi says, all the anger and frustration and heartache from the last year swelling to a peak, and James is not sure which of them she is referring to, but maybe it matters little anymore.


	11. XI

Once they’ve anchored in Savannah harbor, the crew are told Israel Hands was killed in self-defense after a plan for mutiny was uncovered. They are not told Madi was ultimately the one who took his life.

Before any of the crew are allowed to disembark, John spits anger and weighty threats until two of the crew come forward, confessing to knowledge of Hands’ plan to ransom Madi’s life for the map. John swears he will have their tongues for treason and conspiracy until James manages to talk him down from it.  Mutilation will not solve anything here, and John does not need to make an example of these men. Hands was enough. Above everything, Madi does not wish it upon them either.

The two men are led ashore and exiled from the crew and their share of the cache.

James believes the punishment is more than enough to keep the rest of the crew in line.

+

A carriage is sent by Abigail Ashe to take them to her fiance’s estate where Madi’s family is waiting.

It will take them a few hours journey to reach it, and while they move, Madi sits quietly, hands folded upon her skirts. She has on a clean dress and all traces of the blood covering her hours ago is gone. She hasn’t said a word yet since they left the _Walrus_ together. While John has tried to get her to speak, James just waits. He knows she will speak of it in her own time and there’s no sense in forcing the words from her.

It’s John who can barely contain himself, fidgeting and never seeming to find a comfortable place for his body or his mind while confined to the carriage. After a while, James reaches out to still him with a hand on his knee.

“Calm yourself,” James hisses.

“How the fuck are you sitting so quietly?” he hisses back. “I already hate the weather here. I feel like my skin is melting from my bones,” he goes on, happy for someone to break the silence so the words can spill from him in waves. “It’s worse than Nassau somehow, and I don’t understand how that is even possible.”

Madi looks out at the passing countryside, long lines of bogged swamps and cotton plantations sweeping past them in swaying greens and browns. She keeps her own comments to herself.

When John’s words start to blur, he grabs at his James’ arm to get his attention once again. It does what he intended, leaving James wincing from the pain of the wound. He retracts his arm from John’s reach immediately. While his jacket is concealing the cut underneath, it still burns fiercely with any contact.

“Will it need stitches?” John asks with concern.

“If you continue disturbing it,” James grumbles. He doesn’t want to think about stitches right now, though he’s fairly certain he will need them, just two or three at the widest part.

“Come on. Let me see,” John pleads, pulling at the collar of James’ jacket. James thinks about refusing, but he probably should change the bandages anyway, so he eases his jacket off and even that is unbearably painful. It felt like nothing when it was happening, the burning fire of the axe blade slicing through his own flesh, but isn’t that always the case?

Wounds are always felt more vividly after they have settled.

From John’s reaction, the cut is worse off than he thought. It’s bled through the tourniquet, so James begins removing the cloth. He refuses John’s help initially but finally relents. It’s best to choose his battles, he supposes.

“ _Jesus_ ,” John swears, cleaning the wound with the removed cloth. “I should have been there. It should have been me.”

James grimaces because it’s likely John has chosen the worst possible moment to voice such a thought.

“It’s done,” Madi snaps at him. Maybe at both of them. “And I do not regret the outcome.”

James subtly shakes his head at John, seeing the counter argument ready on his tongue. To his surprise, John takes the warning seriously and doesn’t say any more about it.

For once, he’s silent as he folds a new cloth tightly to James’ arm, carefully closing off the wound.

+

The estate where Abigail’s so-to-be husband lives is a bustling property with far more land than James and Madi’s own small farm.

The carriage cuts through a vast field of cotton plants in various stages of growth on either side and leads them on a winding path to the main house set back on the road from Savannah. The house is two storeys with a wide whitewashed porch that wraps around the entire house. James counts eight windows across. Everything appears recently built, with new construction happening a ways out from the main house. There’s a large horse stable and a field set aside for cows beyond the cotton.

If they are treated well, Madi’s family would be comfortable here.

Abigail is waiting at the front of the house with several other people. A tall young man of average build with dark hair and light eyes stands near her, presumed to be George Winthrop, the fiance. There are also two older women present, all smiling in welcome.

James exits first, and helps John down before extending a hand for Madi.

There are warm arms surrounding James almost immediately. Abigail folds him into a tight hug and says, “I was so sorry to hear about Ms. Hamilton, but I was relieved to hear you had survived Charles Town. It is so nice to see you again.”

“I am happy to see you again as well,” James replies, and he finds it is the truth if also tinged with bittersweetness. He thinks of Miranda in this moment. The last time he saw Abigail, was the day Miranda was taken from him.

Greetings and introductions follow. The two older women are Mr. Winthrop’s widowed mother, and Abigail’s aunt, whom she presently lives with not far from here. Abigail will properly move to this house once the wedding occurs in autumn.

“We will take you to them,” Abigail says, smiling at Madi.

Abigail and George walk ahead, chatting about the plantation and their plans for it. It appears she is as much invested in the business here as her husband is, and George finds value in Abigail’s opinions. The house where Madi’s family lives is tucked away in the treeline, set back from the fields surrounding the main house. There are a few other small houses surrounding theirs.

Amelia, Madi’s niece, is the first to spot them. Overwhelmed, Madi stops where she is, the tears already threatening to spill over. Amelia runs to them on the path and embraces Madi in a hug. Madi hugs her tightly and sobs into her neck with relief.

John has kept his word, and James lets out a breath, relieved as well.

“Don’t cry, Auntie. You should be happy,” Amelia says. “We were waiting for you for a very long time.”

“I am so very happy,” Madi confirms, letting the tears fall freely.

She runs ahead of them, Amelia’s hand in hers as she embraces her mother, the queen, near the house, and Eme and Keza, her sister, come from the house to greet them, too. They all look well rested and well fed. The house is small, but not much smaller than their house in Virginia. It’s surrounded by a garden that reminds James of Madi’s own, the same neat rows and patterned colors revealing an assortment of fruits and vegetables.

They are all happy and relieved as a second round of greetings occur.

“When you sent word that Madi was alive, I will admit I did not believe you,” the queen says. She squeezes Madi’s arm and sighs heavily. “Thank you,” she says to John and James. “There is no possibility for repaying this debt.”

“It’s not nearly enough,” John says solemnly, “to repay _my_ debts to you.”

+

In the afternoon, Madi spends some time with her family and James and John stay for a while, catching up and listening to John’s stories over a shared meal.

Into the evening, and when they’re out of earshot, James quietly explains the urgency for stitches to John. Without question, John nods and brings it to the attention of Abigail who says she will send for the doctor.

“A needle, thread and a bottle of rum if you have it,” James clarifies. Abigail is skeptical, but she nods her assent.

“Ah, so we’ll be doing this the _uncivilized_ way then?” John smirks. “Just like old times.” He seems happier than necessary to be stitching James’ arm back together.

+

“Do you want something to bite down on?” John teases.

James just steals the bottle of rum from him, takes a sloppy swig, and then gives John a blank stare.

When John only raises his eyebrows waiting for a reply, James finally says, “I have no interest in a pissing contest over how much pain we have endured between us. Just _fucking_ do it.”

“Of course you don’t, because I would certainly win,” John smiles.

His smug look is absolutely infuriating, but James still refuses to engage, taking another gulp of rum instead.

John runs the cloth over James’ bicep once more, carefully cleaning the dried blood away. It’s still bleeding a little. The skin only needs closing at the bottom, and he’s told John two stitches should be fine.

“You know, the surgeon we have now, he actually thinks opening and draining wounds like this help them heal faster.”

James grunts. “Dr. Howell always did it this way, and you’re still alive today because of him, so I’ll take my chances. My personal experience says my blood needs to stay _in_ my body for me to continue functioning properly. Humours be damned.”

“Fine. Just, stay still,” and with that John holds his skin taut and fastens the cut together with two neat pricks of the needle. It stings, especially as the thread runs through, but the rum begins to soften it around the edges. John ties the thread off and starts on the next one.

“Does it hurt?” John asks, frowning in concentration at his work.

“It’s fine,” James answers, keeping his attention on the candle-lit blue of John’s eyes and not on the needle.

After, he reaches up to pull John toward him by the back of his neck. “Thank you,” James says against his mouth before sucking gently on John’s bottom lip, feeling the rum warm him up from the inside.

John tastes the rum on his mouth and melts into him for a moment. When he tries to pull away, James won’t let him go until he presses his fingers into the skin just above the cut, and James cringes in pain and releases him.

“I’m going to have a wash,” John explains, throwing his shirt off. James just wants to touch all that golden skin and map the tattoo with his tongue and teeth. “And then I’m going to fuck you on that ridiculously large bed you’re sitting on, and then we’re going to send for Madi, maybe eat again, and then I’ll fuck you again, or maybe she will. After all of that, we’re going to sleep for the better part of today and tomorrow. A good plan?”

James falls backward on the bed and stretches his shoulder, trying to find a comfortable position for his throbbing arm. “I’ve thought about nothing else for days.”

+

The next afternoon is breezy and pleasant with the sun hiding behind great tufts of puffy clouds. Abigail talks brightly about her time since Charles Town, the open mindedness of her aunt and the kindhearted nature of Mr. Winthrop.

“His family has much influence in Savannah, and while I do not agree with them always, they listen to me. I feel valued here, and it is what my father would have wanted.”

She has become a lovely young woman, influenced by her vast experiences.

“Your father—” James begins.

“ _My father_ was a good man, James. I know you may not have seen it at the time, but be patient and he may yet surprise you.”

James frowns at her, confused by her words. She rushes on before James has a chance to ask for clarification.

“I imagine you will want to return to Williamsburg soon, but Ms. Scott and her family are always welcome here, especially if _your_ plans involve following Mr. Silver back to the sea.”

It’s strange to speak with someone who knows more about his past and present life than he knows about hers. Then it occurs to James that she may be the only other living person who knows anything of his true relationship with the Hamiltons besides Madi and John.

“I am not yet sure of my plans,” James responds honestly, and Abigail just smiles and nods, leaving James feeling as though he’s been left out of something important happening around him.

+

He finds out soon enough.

“Mr. Silver, I have the news you asked of us. It’s not much, but I hope it is a beginning,” Abigail says, a soft smile upon her lips. They’re sitting together in the parlor, while Madi is with her family.

John takes the letter from Abigail’s hands. His eyes flick to James, a nervous twitch that makes James curious to see what this letter contains. John takes a deep breath and opens the letter carefully, smoothing out the edges before he begins reading.

Abigail says, “I have not read it but can guess at its contents.” She gathers the afternoon tea on a tray and carefully exits the room. She’s giving them space, so the contents must be sensitive.

“John,” James warns when the silence is too much to bear.

John holds up a hand, still frowning down at the letter. When he finishes, he folds it up and carefully places it on the table between them. It’s addressed to Abigail, but James doesn’t recognized the return address or the name.

“I told you I would make it right,” John begins. “You and Madi. You mean _everything_ to me, but I also know there is one other who is never far from your thoughts. When I thought Madi was dead, before the Spanish came to Nassau, I was given some information. It was incomplete and so I did not share it with you. Please understand how I regret this now. There are many things I should have done at that time and didn’t.”

James stares down at the letter as if it were alive.

“Tell me,” James warns, frozen and unwilling to turn the possibilities over in his mind.

“You should just—” and John swallows, face contorting into a mess of emotions James doesn’t understand, not without context, not without the one possibility that might turn his world upside down yet again. John gestures toward the letter.

“ _Tell me_ ,” James warns with more force this time, voice echoing.

“ _James_ ,” John breathes, eyes shining with sadness and regret and something else— the same look you give a person when you know something they don’t know yet, and you’re waiting to reveal the news at the right time. “ _Thomas Hamilton lives._ ”

“ _No._ That’s impossible,” is the only thing James can think to say while the emotions are so intense he’s almost numb from them. With eyes unfocused, James rushes on to keep his mind steady, repeating all the things he believed to be true so that John might stop the profound insanity of this conversation from continuing. “Thomas Hamilton was committed to Bedlam twelve years ago for a _personality disorder_. He was sent there by his father, Lord Hamilton, after our affair was discovered and in lieu of criminal imprisonment. Some time later, Miranda and I were told he died there, suicide by hanging while the—”

“ _Read the fucking letter_ ,” John interrupts. With impatience, John takes the letter and opens it before holding it out so James can see the writing.  

With shaking hands, James finally grabs the letter so he can read what John is claiming.

_June 12, 1718_

_Dear Miss Abigail Ashe,_

_At the time of Mr. Silver’s inquiry into the whereabouts of Thomas Hamilton, I believed him to be missing and likely deceased. It seems that is untrue. Mr. Hamilton was last seen alive in late April near the English settlement known as Camden, beyond the southwestern unmapped portions of the Carolinas. The land there is disputed with the natives, and as his work as surveyor can be dangerous and unpredictable, you can forgive me for thinking it hopeless. I cannot offer you more information at the moment, but I am forever indebted to your father for his trust and good advice before his untimely death, so if there is anything further, I will be sure to inform you._

_Sincerely,_

_James Oglethrope_

“Is this Mr. Oglethorpe credible?” James asks, still unwilling to believe the possibility.

“I believe so,” John replies. “I had reason to believe Thomas might be alive before the battle for Nassau, but the captain I sent to Savannah informed me he was deceased. It appears he lived for some time on a plantation for undesirables, men needing to disappear for shaming their wealthy family names. From what I gather, and from what Abigail was able to find out, Thomas volunteered to assist a surveyor working along the Carolina and Virginia frontiers with bookkeeping and cartography about a year ago.”

“You kept this from me,” James accuses. The rush of emotions leave him confused about what he should feel. _Thomas lives._ After everything, such an idea shouldn't seem possible, and yet here they are, discussing this like it's something real. How could that be? “You had no right to keep this from me, to investigate it without my consent, to not tell me he lived beyond Bedlam regardless of his current unknown whereabouts.”

It is easier to be angry with John then to confront the choices before him, to ignite the hope that one day, _maybe even soon_ , he might see Thomas alive, might hear his voice again, might even— _touch him_. James grits his teeth and wills his heartbeat back to a normal pace, because in this moment, it feels as if it might burst from his chest. He isn't prepared for this, doesn't know how _anyone_ could ever prepare for something like this. _Fuck._

“I thought it was best until I was sure,” John says carefully. He lowers his eyes, making James question his full motivation. “I realize now how goddamned selfish that sounds. _I'm so sorry._ Everything happened so fast and there wasn’t time then. And now, I think I— just wanted to protect you from it if it were still hopeless. I thought it was the right thing to do until I knew for sure.”

James breathes through the anger, concentrating on what he needs to say first.

“You once asked me if I would trade the war to have Thomas back—”

John nods, clearly afraid of the answer now, not wanting to hear what else he might trade. James swallows. “I do not think I would have let the war go, the war I fought in _his_ name, without someone forcibly removing me from it. It was so much a part of me then that I couldn’t separate myself from it, but now— I don’t know.”

John is determined when he looks up again. “Of course, my wish is for you to come with me to Hispaniola, but— I would also understand if you wanted to stay and search for Thomas. My intention was always to give you that choice once I knew for sure he was alive.”

And despite the anger he still feels about John keeping this from him, James can also feel the sincerity with which John speaks. It’s clear to James that finding Thomas is part of how John intends to make amends, even if James has moved past needing that from him. John is giving him the chance to walk away from the sea forever and give him up in the process. That means something.

John looks up at him, determined but also afraid. “What will you do?”

James shakes his head and reaches out for the letter once again, thumbing the crisp paper. “I don’t know."


	12. XII

When James wakes, the sun is appearing just over the tree line, bathing the plantation in early morning amber and golden light.

Madi is standing by the window looking out toward the fields of cotton and the laborers beginning their morning tasks. They can’t see the house where her family is living from here, but it’s there just beyond the curve in the path. She has a blanket draped across her shoulders but hasn’t yet dressed. There’s a steaming cup of tea in her hands, and the late summer humidity is already making the room warm and sticky.

“It’s too early,” James says, standing near and kissing her shoulder. It's too early for the deep thoughts forming behind her creased brow. She bends her neck away from him invitingly and so he kisses her there, too, where the curve of her neck meets her shoulder.  She hands the tea back for him to take a sip, and it burns down deep, soothing and familiar.

“How is your arm?” she asks, taking the tea back from him. He raises his arm to look at the stitches. It hasn’t bled since yesterday, and while it’s still tender and aches when he puts weight on it, the wound appears to be settling.

“It’s sore, but will be fine in a few weeks. God knows I’ve survived worse.” He imagines he’ll have a wide scar to match the one across John’s thigh once it’s finished healing.

“He did not sleep last night,” Madi states, nodding toward John visible through the window pane, hobbling up the path to the cotton fields alongside one of the laborers. He has tools in his free hand and is talking with the man.

“Yes, I know,” James says. If John would have come, James doesn’t think he would have denied him a place in bed, but John did not come, restless with his own thoughts and unwilling to accept the possibility of James’ understanding and acceptance coming much sooner than even he had anticipated.  

Without exposition, Madi says, “I was told Thomas Hamilton lives, but I have not yet heard your thoughts on this news.”

James can feel the beat of his heart grow faster, and he wishes Madi could feel it too so that he might be free of explaining the emotion to her in words.

“It’s a complicated thing to have someone return to your life after such a long absence,” she continues, and James is grateful for the time to process what he might say in response. “I barely knew my father anymore when he returned to our island for the last time. We led separate lives for so long I had forgotten how to speak to him, to even share space with him. It was as if I longed for the memory of him from when I was a child, not the man he had become, and I was not prepared for the disappointment of having one and not the other.”

“Thomas will always be part of me,” is the only thing James can think of to say.

“And when you find him, and after some time, you will know how he might fit into your life again. I think finding him is the only way to know for sure.”

They stand together for a while, drinking tea and absorbing the sunlight, lost in their own thoughts.

James breaks the silence with, “Are you alright?”

If she doesn’t want to speak, that’s fine, but it’s worth asking anyway. Taking Hands’ life will be no easy thing to bury in the past. The weight of every life James has taken feels so heavy now without a war to justify the reasons, and he wonders if it will be similar for her.

Instead of answering his question, she takes his hand and leans against him, pressing her back to his front. She threads her fingers through James’ knuckles and he holds her close with his hand low on the curve of her belly, under her navel. “I have my family. I have the two of you, and this gift shared between us. A new life. And maybe I will also come to know Thomas. For the first time, I am sure that is everything I need.”

“Have you told John?” he asks, feeling his hand warm to the soft skin at her belly. In truth, the two of them have not yet had a proper conversation about it either, about the life almost certainly growing within her. He doesn’t think she’s known long though, and he isn’t surprised that she would wait for him to notice rather than telling him outright.

There are only small changes so far, but if one cares to look, the signs are there: a tiredness to her movements, quiet moments of thoughtfulness, a subtle swell and tenderness in her breasts and no blood between her thighs in some weeks.

James is quite content to keep such a precious secret between them for a while longer, maybe so he has time to fathom what it will be like to nurture life after spending so many years caught in the cyclical hell of destroying it.

“Did you think telling him would keep him here?” Madi asks.

“No,” James sighs. “I think nothing will persuade him to abandon his plan to make this right. Something like this will only add fuel to the fire.”

In truth, he worries over John most of all, and he knows Madi does as well. Returning to the sea without an anchor will be difficult at best, and impossible at worst. James isn’t sure anything will ever be enough for John to say he’s finished atoning, and that’s what frightens him above all else.

Madi smiles softly. “I think he knew before I did, and he has assured me he will do everything within his power to return before it is time for the birth.”

“I believe him,” James says, pressing his nose into the back of her neck with his hands still resting upon her belly.

+

The map lies unfolded on the table. John stands near, tracing the black ink with his fingers just as James puts the quill back in the ink pot. It’s finished. The black _X_ stands out sharply against the yellow of the parchment.

“Here?” John asks, tracing the _X_ with care.

James nods. That is where John will find the cache, hidden in a rocky cave at the bottom of the tangled jungle on _Skeleton Island_. “I would ask you once again to leave this plan behind, to stay here, to help me find Thomas, to be here for Madi as she needs us, but I also do not think you would listen if I suggested it.”

John seems to appreciate the effort at least. “The more you try to convince me, the more I am set on going.”

He carefully rolls the map, and James secures it with a cord. When the map is passed to him, James wraps his hand around John’s wrist and pulls him closer. John is surprised at first, but doesn't resist.

“The sea will have you, but only if you let it,” James says, and the words sound silly as he voices them. He thinks John might not even understand or take him seriously, but when he looks up, John’s face only reflects acceptance and something deeper.

“So I will not let it have me,” John responds easily, and James wishes it were really that simple. “Besides, I think the sea knows my heart belongs elsewhere,” John continues, smiling when James can’t hold back an eye roll. He loosens the silver ring on James’ fourth finger, sliding it down to the knuckle until James curls his hand to prevent him from removing it entirely. It once belonged to Thomas, and James isn’t sure if he ever shared that with John before.

“I know you will protect her,” John whispers, still idly twisting at the ring, “but maybe some things are always worth saying aloud.”

“She is safe, and if I find Thomas—”

Madi says from the doorway, “If you find him, and if he desires, he will have a place amongst us.”

John lowers his eyes, grinning. “I fear I may be far too selfish for such a thing.”

“You will adapt,” Madi says without hesitation. “Just as we all will.” Madi comes to claim the space between them.

When she reaches for him, James kisses her forehead, and then John’s behind her, and they stay like that for a while, holding each other and breathing as one, carefully closing the wounds of past wrongs with promises for the future. They won’t ever be the same as they are in this moment, but maybe that’s okay.

Against sensible pathways and with unfathomable fortune, they have found ways to grow together, and maybe in this life that will be enough to see them through.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> There's still a lot of plot left in this, as you can see, and I have some vague ideas for what comes next, but this felt like a good place to leave it without creating some kind of endless WIP. The thought of that makes me entirely too anxious, so 'yes' to putting a pause on the madness for a little while. Thanks for sticking with me and leaving me such lovely comments! You all made this so much fun to write! FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY LITTLE OT3 SHIPPER HEART, THANK YOU. ♥
> 
> Here's a playlist I listen to as I write: [Line of Sight](https://open.spotify.com/user/samedifference61/playlist/6swuIRduYbiuzR7Dmt51LU) and I'm [samedifference61](samedifference61.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. I mostly reblog stuff from way cooler people, but I'm always looking for fic prompts and inspiration too.


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